


Family: Blood Calls to Blood

by Hesadevil



Series: La Series [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-25
Updated: 2009-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 56,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hesadevil/pseuds/Hesadevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike's actions cause problems for Angel and his friends at Wolfram and Hart. WIP, set between 'Damage' 'Origin'. This was my first attempt at fanfiction and I was learning as I went along. Thanks to my wonderful betas, Bogwitch and MyFeetShowit, I think it turned out ok.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Angel, We Have a Problem

**Author's Note:**

> Written during Angel the Series, before Origins aired.

  
  


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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

 

****

 

Chapter 1: Angel We have a Problem.

 

______________________________________________________

"Spike! What the Hell were you thinking of?"

 

"Try not to do too much of that," replied Spike. "Thinking   
leads to brooding and Angel does enough for both of us. Anyway,   
I thought you wanted me to help?"

 

Spike had a point, Wesley reasoned. That was the trouble,  
Spike always had a point. Unfortunately, it usually led to Angel's  
further retreat into the shell that had hardened with Cordelia's  
absence from their lives. Spike's arrival in L.A. had coincided with  
a fragmentation of the tightly knit team that Angel Investigations  
had been prior to their employment at Wolfram and Hart. Angel had become  
even more morose than usual after his fight with Spike for possession  
of the Cup of Perpetual Torment, whereas Spike had bounced back in that  
irritating fashion that was fast becoming his trademark. He'd thrown himself  
headlong into his own version of _helping the helpless_ each venture  
resulting in various degrees of discomfiture for the rest of them.

 

Wesley didn't understand why, or how, but Spike's  
latest escapade had affected Angel in a way that both surprised  
and worried him. On hearing what had taken place, Angel had initially  
merely shrugged and observed that it was 'par for the course' where  
Spike was concerned. Later that evening, Angel had received an inter-office   
memo from Eve, apparently spelling out in detail exactly what the repercussions  
of Spike's actions were. Wesley was used to Angel's brooding but, on  
receipt of the memo, the older vampire had swung from moody silence to  
noisy rage. Working out how to impose some form of control over Spike   
was proving more difficult than Wesley had anticipated.

 

"Well, yes, we did say that we'd like you to help,   
but by working with us, not going off half-cocked on your own tin   
pot one-vampire-with-a-soul-crusade." Wesley reasoned that Spike   
needed to hear his message in terms that would leave him in no doubt  
as to the irresponsibility of his actions.

 

"How many times do I have to say it? Not on any crusade  
. . . Hang on, 'Half cocked?' I never do anything by halves."  
A slow grin spread across Spike's face. "Particularly if it involves  
cock - "

 

The word was cut short by the sudden appearance of   
Angel at the open office door. He glared at Spike, arms folded,   
silent, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

 

"…unlike someone not a million miles away," finished   
Spike. "Hello Gramps. What brings you to this neck of Wesley's office?"

 

"Your stupidity, Spike, as usual." Angel's soft voice  
barely concealed his anger at Spike's latest blunder. He looked  
at Spike and wondered, not for the first time, why he'd been sent  
to Wolfram and Hart. All he'd done so far was cause trouble. Not that  
Spike causing trouble was anything new; he'd done that from the first  
day Drusilla had brought home her 'knight'.

 

_Spike, a Champion._ Angel still couldn't   
accept it, no matter what Eve told him. "So that's your idea of   
being a Champion is it? Getting drunk and killing the first demon that  
happened to get in your way? I think you need lessons in how things   
are done around here. Unfortunately for me, I don't have the time to   
give them to you. There are more important matters that need my attention,   
thanks to you."

 

With that, Angel turned and stomped away. Spike clenched   
his jaw. It had only been one measly demon; it wasn't as if he'd   
torn through the entire demon population of L.A. How was he to know   
it was the progeny of Wolfram and Hart's most important client? And  
what was it doing in that bar, disturbing his quiet drink? As far as  
Spike saw it, the annoying little bugger had deserved all he got.

 

 

Spike hesitated, unsure what to do next. Should he   
follow Angel to find out just why he was so pissed off about the   
previous night's bar brawl? Or should he try to pump Wesley for more   
information on this mysterious client? It took only a split second for  
Spike to choose the easier option. Winding people up was a favourite   
pastime, one he'd practised through the decades until he had it down   
to perfection. It was time to see just how he'd fare doing the same with   
Angel.

 

* * * * *

 

"Don't you ever knock?" Angel's voice, barely a whisper,   
choked back his misery. He hated Spike; did not want to see him,   
not like this. Not one of his friends remembered anything about Connor   
and he'd be damned if he was going to tell Spike about him. Angel had   
hit rock bottom, or thought he had, when the implication that Spike might  
be the one to Shanshu had struck him. He didn't think he could sink any  
lower. But now he had, back down to where Holtz had sent him when he'd  
taken his son away from him; and he felt himself falling apart.

 

Spike just didn't know what he'd set in motion when  
he'd killed that demon. How could he? Angel alone knew of the deal  
done with Wolfram and Hart to give Connor a normal life. He'd lost  
Connor once. Now it looked as though he might lose him again, forever  
this time. Of all the bars in L.A., the soul-eating demon had to walk  
in to the one in which Spike had chosen to get thoroughly drunk.

 

Silence hung in the air between them; cold, empty  
and barren, no sign of what passed for normal relations between  
the two vampires.

 

_This isn't right, thought Spike. He should  
have kicked me back out of the door by now, or through the window,  
or something. Anything would be better than this._ Spike closed  
the door and strode across to where Angel was standing in the fading  
light by the window.

 

"Say something, "he demanded. "Tell me what I've done  
that's so terrible you can't give me the beating you obviously  
think I deserve."

 

"Didn't losing your hands teach you anything?" Angel   
spat at him.

 

"About what? Taking orders without question? That  
was never my style Angel, you know that."

 

"About thinking before rushing in where angels fear  
to tread." Angel cringed at the pun but it was too late to take  
it back. He sank into his chair. He had no way of dealing with this.  
The memo from Eve had spelled it out clearly enough. The contract  
demanded blood, his progeny's blood, a life for a life. Renege on  
the contract and the whole deal with Wolfram and Hart was off, for all  
of them. How could he explain to any of them that this was all Spike's  
fault when they knew nothing of the contract he'd signed? "God help me  
William, what am I going to do?"

 

"I was just explaining my allergy to thinking to Wes   
before you interrupted us, but, as you did, perhaps you can clarify   
a few things." Spike stopped, _Bloody Hell! Last time he   
called me William, it was Angelus in the driving seat._ Spike swung   
the chair round to peer into Angel's eyes. " Wait a minute." Spike looked  
deeper, his blue eyes piercing Angel's brown. "Nope, soul's still  
intact. Your little shag fest with Eve the other day obviously didn't  
do the trick." Spike hesitated as Angel returned his gaze, staring intently  
at him as if seeing him for the first time.

 

_So, it's true, _thought Angel._ You   
can see the soul in the eyes._ He gazed at Spike. _What lies   
behind those eyes? What does Buffy see that makes him a Champion   
to her? She once saw only the killer. What difference does the soul   
make?_

 

What did it matter? A soul wasn't going to help them   
now. What they needed was - Angel didn't know what they needed, that  
was the problem.

 

"Just tell me. What's happened that's so terrible  
you're in no fit state to beat the crap out of me?"

 

"You proved I couldn't do that anymore the other day,"   
replied Angel wearily.

 

"Oh, come off it, Peaches. You gave as good as you   
got. You could have stopped me a dozen times. You just didn't want   
it enough, did you?"

 

Spike had hit the target once again. Just where did  
he get the talent for cutting right through to the heart of the  
matter? Buffy had once told him that you could fool many people,  
including yourself, but the one person you couldn't fool when it  
came to your true motivation, was Spike. What had prevented Angel  
beating him and claiming the Cup for himself?

 

There was no time to dwell on his failure to beat  
Spike. His current problem had nothing to do with being a Champion,  
who deserved the Shanshu more, or what having a soul meant. This  
was about family and honour, his family's honour. And that didn't  
just mean Connor. It meant all of them; Wes, Gunn, Fred, Lorne, and,  
God help him, Spike.

____________________________________________________________________  
  
---|---


	2. 2Deal with a demon

  
  
  


 

 

 

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Family: Blood Calls to Blood ****

**Chapter  
2:** Deal with a demon.

 

________________________________________________________________________

Angel  
dropped his eyes from Spike’s, closed them and buried his head in his hands. As he watched,  
Spike was reminded of the awful moment he’d watched Buffy jump  
to her death; the time when he had openly wept in front of her friends,  
too traumatised to hide his feelings from those who’d shown him nothing  
but contempt. Spike had never seen Angel like this before. He felt ill  
equipped to deal with Angel’s sudden loss of  
emotional control.

_He’s  
coming apart_, Spike realised; the shock felt almost physical,  
as if he’d been punched. Perhaps Angel feared for someone he loved  
very deeply? Nothing else could account for allowing him to witness  
this slide towards despair.

Spike  
panicked. "Is it Buffy? What’s happened to her?"

Angel  
was unable to reply, lost again to the numbing dismay that  
overwhelmed him.

Spike  
frantically scanned Angel’s desk for clues, for anything that  
might indicate the source of Angel’s fear. _1950s clock and penholder  
. . . T.V. remote . . . empty video case . . . framed photographs._  
He picked up one of the pictures. It showed Cordelia, smiling directly  
at the camera, flanked by a goofy, grinning Angel and a serious,  
straight-faced Wesley.

_Cordelia.  
Could it be Cordelia?_

Spike  
opened his mouth to articulate the thought but stopped as his  
attention was drawn back to the video case beside the remote.  
He reached for the controls and, just as his thumb was about to  
connect with the play button, felt it jolted out of his hand. It  
skidded across the desk and clattered to the floor.

In the  
same instant he heard Angel snarl, "That has nothing to do  
with Buffy . . . and absolutely nothing to do with you."

Spike  
braced himself for the blow he expected to come next, but it  
never came. They were interrupted by a knock on the door heralding  
Wesley’s entrance to the room. Without pausing, Wesley strode  
over to the TV and switched it on.

"You  
should see this."

A news’  
reporter faced the camera, a microphone in his hand. "As you  
can see behind me, the whole campus has been cordoned off. The  
number of bodies taken away for post mortems so far is nine, but  
the police estimate that there may be as many as twenty more inside  
the student accommodation block. This particular building is reserved  
for students in their Freshman year at the college." The camera panned  
over his head to show paramedics carrying a stretcher bearing a body  
bag to the nearest ambulance waiting outside the building. "There is  
no explanation for what took place on the second floor," continued the  
reporter. "All we know is that all the victims are male. Someone, or  
some thing appears to have ripped their bodies to pieces."

"A large-scale  
demon attack coming so soon after Eve’s memo. It can’t be co-incidence.  
What do you think, Angel?" Wesley looked away from the TV, at  
Angel still slumped in his chair, eyes downcast, seemingly oblivious  
to the news broadcast. Surprised by Angel’s lack of reaction to the  
images on the screen, and sensing something else was wrong, Wesley  
crossed the room, stopping mere inches away from the silent vampire.  
His foot came to rest on something on the floor beside the desk.

He froze  
as the video clicked to life. _Lilah’s voice_.

"Hey  
Ace, if you’re watching this, then I’m dead - still. Sorry, couldn’t resist,  
always wanted to use that line. Guess I’m unique in that I  
got to use it _after_ I died. Seeing his big day must  
have come as a pleasant surprise? Believe me it took some time to  
persuade the Senior Partners to let me do this for you. I just thought  
you might need a little reminder why it would be best if you didn’t  
do anything that might jeopardise his future."

Guilt  
and anguish flooded through Wesley at the sound of Lilah’s   
voice. He dared not look at the screen.

"That  
part where he talked about 'helping the helpless'; the conviction  
that he’s doing the right thing. - Got to me, right here. - Gosh,  
forgot - you can't see me, hand on heart here. I digress - The idealism  
of youth, so easily corrupted."

Wesley  
risked a glance at the screen. It was blank, save for the Wolfram  
and Hart logo in the top left corner.

"Let  
me just refresh your memory. The Special Client; you know, the one who appears  
in the Special Client’s file? Keep your nose clean where he’s  
concerned. You know what will happen if you don’t. You don’t?  
OK, I’ll spell it out, directly from the relevant clause in the  
fine print of the contract you signed."

Wesley  
struggled to keep his attention on what Lilah was saying. His  
mind was reeling, fighting to remember. He shot a look in Angel’s,  
direction but he remained motionless, his face betraying nothing  
of his emotions.

"_We  
may terminate this contract, or any part hereof, for cause in  
the event of any default by You, or if You fail to comply with any  
contract terms and conditions, or fail to provide Us, upon request,  
with adequate assurances of future performance. In the event of  
termination for cause, We shall not be liable to You for any debt  
or service not accepted, or for the continuing maintenance of any   
Arrangement of any kind, be it mythical, magical or economic, made  
pursuant to this contract and You shall be liable to Us for any and  
all rights and remedies as provided by Brehon Law, including payment  
of the Honour Price by means of Progeny’s Blood."_

The television  
was silenced. Angel, his eyes averted from both Spike’s and  
Wesley’s querying gaze, had risen quietly from his chair, hit  
the standby switch and returned to his seat. There was a slight  
shift in his features. He’d smelt Wesley’s fear and was focussing  
his attention on his reaction to Lilah’s voice.

Wesley  
had another flash of recall_. Progeny’s Blood - __Something  
about a baby. _He died a little more inside._Honour  
Price_? The memory was snatched away, leaving just the raw  
emotions; guilt, shame, failure. He rewound Lilah’s words in his  
head. How had it begun? _Special client_. Wesley didn’t  
know anything about any special clients. _Brehon Law? _What  
on earth was Angel thinking of, signing a contract with those terms?

"You  
didn’t read the fine print_?_" he said finally.

"Skimmed  
it. How was I to know the all-improved-version Champion would  
show up and complicate things?" muttered Angel, waving an arm in  
Spike’s direction. "The probability of someone killing the demon’s  
son was about a million to one before he re-materialised."

Spike  
squared up to Angel, who had risen to his feet. "Hey! Didn’t  
ask to be here. Thought I’d done my bit back at the Hellmouth.  
Was quite content to stay dead. Wish I had."

"Could  
help you out with that."

"Please  
don’t start all that nonsense again," warned Wesley. "Look  
where it led last time. This isn’t the time for feuding with Spike.  
We have a bigger problem to solve. You weren’t the only one to receive  
a memo from Eve. Each of us has been reminded of the terms of our employment.  
Things are changing, Angel. Departmental staffs are beginning to question  
our authority. We have to work quickly to stop whatever’s been set  
in motion. Judging by that news item, it’s the Slaughter of the Innocents  
all over again. We need to work together if we’re to make any progress."

Angel  
reflected for a moment, then stepped away from Spike. "What  
do you suggest?"

"I suggest  
you ask Gunn to start work studying the contract you signed,  
particularly that clause. It needs interpreting. And, when he’s  
done with that, he might move on to the ones to which the rest  
of us agreed."

"The  
contract, right. Good place to start."

"And you might dig out the Special Clients' File."

 

"Special Clients' File. On it."

Wesley  
headed back to his office, calling out as he did so, "I’ll  
see what I can find on Brehon Law. And Spike, I’ll need as much  
detail as you can give me on your demon."

Spike  
decided he’d play nice for a while and was about to follow   
him out of the door when Angel’s voice stopped him.

"Wes’s  
right. We need to work together on this," he said grudgingly.  
"You owe me that much."

"Don’t  
owe you a thing," replied Spike. "You’re the one sold his soul  
to the devil without putting his reading specs on."

Angel  
ignored the gibe. "Yes, you do." His voice was firm, steady,  
and free of the hatred he’d expressed earlier.

Spike  
turned, considered the change in Angel’s attitude for a moment,  
and made his way back to one of the crimson chairs in the centre  
of the room. "I’m listening."

"This  
Honour Price involves my progeny."

"Oh,  
and that would be me I suppose? What do you want me to do? Hand myself  
over willingly before we know exactly what’s involved? Bugger that!" Spike  
scoffed.

"Will  
you never learn to stop interrupting? You’re not the only person  
I sired."

"You  
mean Dru?"

"Not  
Dru. There is another."

Spike  
was intrigued, and more than a little hurt; of course it couldn’t  
be concern for him or Dru that had Angel so worked up. There had  
to be someone else; someone who meant much more to him than either  
of them.

"It’s  
a long story and I’m not going to bore you with all the details,  
but I have a son, a human son."

"That’s  
not possible!"

"So everyone  
kept telling me at the time. But it’s true, I have a son and  
I had to give him up." Angel paused, struggling for control. "It  
was the only way I could save him. The contract with Wolfram and  
Hart gave him an entirely new identity. No, more than that, a new life  
-with a new family. He has no memories of who he really is – who he  
was."

"When  
did this happen? How?"

"Darla  
happened."

"Darla?  
Yeah, right!" snorted Spike.

"Look,  
I told you it’s a long story. I’ll tell you over a drink."   
Angel went to one of his cupboards and pulled out a whiskey bottle  
and two glasses. He held the bottle up towards Spike. "Powers?"

Spike  
raised an eyebrow. "The wages of sin, mate. Pour away."

* * *  
* *

The bottle  
was half-empty and the light was totally gone from the sky.  
Angel and Spike sat side by side, their glasses freshly replenished.  
Wesley had abandoned his attempts at getting Spike to his office  
to brief him on the demon. After his third phone call, he’d decided  
that if the two vampires were able to spend hours in one another’s  
company, talking without attempting to kill one another, it was  
probably worth the wait.

"So,  
how come we never got to hear about any of this over in Sunnydale?" asked  
Spike. "Didn’t you think Buffy had a right to know? Or were you worried  
how she might take the news?"

"It was  
a difficult time. What with trying to save the world from Jasmine  
and the Beast, things were complicated." Angel studied the contents  
of his glass. Why did Spike always do this, bring everything back  
to his relationship with Buffy?

"They  
always are. Doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell her."

"Jesus,  
Spike – one-track-mind. Pour my heart out to you and all you  
can think about is . . ."

"Had  
plenty of opportunity before the snatch happened," Spike insisted. "So  
why didn’t you?"

_Same  
old Spike. Taking any opportunity to bring everything back  
to his own obsession._ "Just let it go will you?"

Spike  
had no intention of dropping the topic. He was on his feet,  
pacing, angrily round the room. "What? You afraid she’d stop loving  
you? Afraid she’d hate you when you told her you had the one thing  
you can never give her?"

Angel’s  
glass shattered in his hand. "You don’t understand," he growled.

Spike  
came to a halt in front of Angel and glared down at him. "Oh,  
I think I do Angel. You wanted to keep them both. You wanted to  
go on playing happy families here in L.A., knowing that the love  
of your life was fighting the good fight in Sunnydale, still in love  
with you."

Angel  
slumped back in his seat, the urge to fight draining out of  
his fingers with the remaining shards of glass.

"Perhaps  
you’re right. Who knows? What’s done is done. Too late now to  
undo it. Anyway, there’s no point in telling her now is there? He’s  
not mine any more." Angel looked up at Spike and gave him a small  
smile. "Neither of them are mine any more."

_Neither  
of them!_ Spike’s anger evaporated. He sat down and turned  
Angel’s story over in his mind. "Still don’t get it," he said after  
a few moments of reflection. "Why’d you do it? Why sell yourself  
to Wolfram and Hart?"

"Have  
you ever loved anybody so much that you’d do anything to give  
them a chance at living a normal life?" Angel glanced at Spike and  
understood his glum, silent response immediately. "I love my son  
above everything else, Spike. Darla told me he was the only good  
thing we ever did together. And she was right."

Spike  
was quiet for a second or two, thinking of Buffy. For once  
his_ quippy-muse_ deserted him. It took a moment for him  
to recognise the emotion he felt, unaccustomed as he was to feeling  
it, but it was pity; pity for Angel. Now Spike knew the reason  
for the earlier breakdown. So where did he fit in any plan Angel  
had to save his son again? And what about the others? "But this  
mind-wipe thing," he said, voicing his concern. "It’ll turn out badly.  
These things always do. Means justifying the end? It’s a slippery   
slope."

"I know.  
I can handle it." Angel raised his head and looked Spike straight  
in the eyes. "They must never know."

Spike  
nodded, reluctantly. He’d heard that somewhere before and remembered  
how it had ended.

"Are  
you going to help me?"

Spike  
didn’t need to consider his reply for long. Angel might deserve  
all the resentment he’d thrown at him for turning him into a monster,  
but he didn’t deserve punishment for turning his son into  
the twisted boy he’d become in Holtz’s hands. "I’ll help, Angel.  
But only ‘cos it’s you who’s doing the asking this time." Spike’s  
expression brightened, " When do I get my own office?"

* * *  
* *

The feeble  
rays of a winter sun were filtering their way through the blinds.  
Spike had left long ago to find Wesley. Angel pressed the pause  
button and stopped the video at the place where he’d always stopped  
it before Wesley’s accident with the remote, on Connor’s smiling  
face. Angel had previously felt only joy, tempered by a sense of loss  
at that smile, knowing his son was safely in the bosom of a normal  
family. Connor, in his graduation robes, had just delivered his Valedictorian  
speech on the platform at Eagle Rock High. He had spoken of a scholarship  
that would help fund his studies to further his ambition to work for  
the Court of Appeal in The Hague, championing the cause of Human Rights.  
Angel didn’t know if he deserved the feeling of pride that welled up  
inside when he listened to his son, but for the time being he took comfort  
in the knowledge that Connor was safe; he’d accepted a place at Cornell.

_So  
why do I feel so uneasy about these killings at USC? _Angel  
turned to his computer and searched for the updated information.  
He scanned the list of victims’ names. Connor’s wasn’t among them.

 

_________________________________________________________________________

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	3. 3Relative Values Part 1

  
  
  


 

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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

 

****

 

Chapter 3. Relative Values

**Song  
extract** from 'She's a Sensation', The Ramones: Album, 'Pleasant  
Dreams'.

 

My thanks to Ceit for most of the scene in Harmony's   
apartment.

 

______________________________________________________________

Wesley  
was impressed; Angel had done what he’d failed to do, he’d got  
Spike to agree to work with them at Wolfram and Hart. _Perhaps  
it was the offer of an office that did it,_ thought Wesley. He’d  
probably never know. Close as he was to Angel, he wasn’t ‘blood family’  
like Spike.

“You  
call this an office?” Spike’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he looked around  
the room with disdain. “It’s smaller than the broom cupboard Xander  
let me bunk in.”

The office  
was certainly not of the same palatial proportions of Angel’s  
but only Spike would refer to it as a broom cupboard.

“Let  
me show you the facilities,” said Wesley. “Angel asked me to make a few suggestions  
to help a fellow Englishman feel at home.”

_Home_,  
thought Spike wistfully. _Haven’t felt at home since . . . No,  
don’t go there. Buffy’s basement is a big hole in the ground, along  
with the rest of Sunnyhell._

Wesley  
led the way over to an alcove set to the right-hand side of a  
large window. He opened the first of a series of matching cupboards  
faced in maple. “Here we have a supplies cabinet.”

Spike  
was surprised by the contents. This was no office supplies’ cabinet;  
it was a fully stocked refrigerator. There were cans of beer and  
a bottle of milk, packets of ready-cooked meals and, neatly stacked  
on the bottom shelves cartons containing what looked like fresh blood.  
Spike picked one up and held it to the light. “This come with a use-by  
stamp?”

Wesley  
reached out and turned the carton around so that Spike could read  
the reverse side.

“Hmmm.  
‘Ts good for another day. How often is this re-stocked?”

“Daily,  
I think, and the same for the milk. But not the other contents.  
Apparently you’re to be rationed on that. Imported beer isn’t cheap.”

Spike  
picked out one of the cans from inside the fridge door. “What the  
. . . ? Wes! How could you let them do this to the Cream of Manchester?  
Boddingtons dies at this temperature.”

“I did  
leave instructions that it was to be stored in another cupboard,”  
said Wesley frowning. “Americans just don’t seem to appreciate the  
subtle flavours of English beer."

“No they  
bloody don’t,” agreed Spike. “Though I quite like a cold Guinness  
on a hot day.”

“That  
doesn’t count,” said Wesley sharply. “It’s Irish.”

Spike  
closed the fridge and began opening other doors at random. The  
first concealed a microwave oven.

“For  
heating the blood,” Wesley explained unnecessarily.

“Or spicy  
buffalo-wings,” added Spike, grinning. From what he’d just spotted  
in the refrigerator, someone knew his food preferences very well.

Another  
door dropped down from just below the height of Spike’s head to  
form a small tabletop. Wesley reached into the cupboard and slid out  
an automatic tea-maker. In the recesses at the back of the cupboard,  
Spike could see various packets, labelled ‘Ceylon’, ‘Darjeeling’, ‘Earl  
Grey’, ‘Lapsang Souchong’.

Wesley  
coughed nervously. “Um, - I don’t know what your preferences are  
as regards tea, but I asked for a selection, just to get you started.“  
He rummaged in the fruit bowl on the counter-top. “Though I can’t  
see any lemons; I distinctly asked for lemons . . . ”

Spike  
chuckled, “Appreciate the thought. Not much of a tea drinker these  
days.” Spike wondered where all this was leading. Wesley was trying  
too hard.

“Yes,  
well . . . perhaps we should move over to the main work area.”

The room  
was divided neatly into two distinct areas. The half in which they  
stood was furnished with two over-stuffed leather sofas, facing one  
another across a low, light-oak coffee table.

_Could  
settle in here permanently,_ mused Spike. _Sofas look comfy.  
Three-seater looks as if it converts to a bed._ Spike wondered  
who had chosen the furnishings and the colour scheme of dark, slate-grey  
carpet and midnight-blue blinds. _Someone with taste._

Wesley  
crossed the room to the side opposite the seating, where the desk  
stood. Spike followed, but stopped as he stepped into the light  
that was streaming through the large picture window.

“Over  
here is your Control Centre. Everything can be activated from  
your office chair. Why don’t you try it out and see what’s been  
provided?” Wesley turned to see why Spike didn’t respond and was  
fascinated by the sight of vampire standing close to the window, basking  
in the sunlight.

“Never  
tire of this,” beamed Spike. “’S almost as good as the Gem of  
Amarra, ‘cept you can’t carry it with you. Wonder if they could  
treat clothes with whatever is on the glass? D’ you think Fred would  
have a go at trying something like that?”

“I hardly  
consider that a responsible use of her departmental budget.” Wesley  
was quick to censure any ideas Spike might be entertaining to find  
an excuse to get closer to Fred.

“Calm  
down, Watcher Boy. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I was only  
teasing.” Spike stepped back from the window into the shadows.  
“Just like the whole not bursting into flames when I step into sunlight  
that’s all.”

Wesley  
allowed himself to relax. He was having a difficult time getting  
to know Spike, but it would be worth the effort. He was determined  
to fathom the puzzle of the two vampires with souls in relation to  
the Shanshu prophecy. Spike had just saved the world, and a phrase,  
he couldn’t remember its origins nor why it kept recurring, was haunting  
Wesley; _Angel’s son must save the world._

He marvelled,  
not for the first time, at just how different the two vampires  
were. Where Angel shunned the safe sunlight offered by the windows,  
here was Spike basking in the pleasure of testing his ‘wonder if I’ll  
freckle’ theory. Where Angel’s concerns drove him inward into solitary  
meditation, Spike’s sent him outward seeking company of some sort.  
Spike was all about action, and as changeable as the English weather;  
Angel was all about control. Wesley wondered how Angel hoped to control  
Spike by limiting his activities to those an office had to offer.

“There’s  
a computer here, with Internet access, Broadband of course, and  
. . .”

“Broadband?”  
interrupted Spike, swivelling the chair and testing its tilt action  
at the same time.

Wesley  
smiled. Angel really hadn’t a hope of getting Spike to stay at a  
desk for long. “It means the Internet is always on. Now this control  
button here,” Wesley caught the armrest as it swung towards him, “is  
for the television.” This was far more suitable for Spike. A cupboard  
door on the wall facing the desk slid open to reveal a large flat screen.  
“And this is the D.V.D. player.” The screen leapt into action, a menu  
appearing on a blue background. “If you want to listen to some music as  
you work,” Wesley couldn’t begin to imagine what sort of work Spike might  
be given; “there’s always the sound system.” The D.V.D. menu was replaced  
by a long list of albums.

“Are  
all these mine?” Spike squeaked, unable to keep the excitement out of his  
voice. “Where’d you find ‘em? Some of these are virtually impossible to  
get.” He began skimming down the list. “ Sex Pistols’ ’Anarchy in the UK’,  
the live album, ‘Never Mind the Bollocks’. Look, there’s even some Black  
Flag, and Dead Kennedys!” Spike was practically bouncing with joy.

_It’s  
like watching a child opening his Christmas presents,_ thought  
Wesley. When had he last seen Angel show that much enthusiasm for  
anything? Come to think of it, when had he ever seen Angel show that  
much enthusiasm? “They were all recommended by Harmony. She seems  
to know your tastes in music very well.”

“Yeah,  
well, we had a thing going a few years’ back and she moved in  
with me. Didn’t end well. She set fire to most of my stuff at one  
point. Only left me the rubbish I didn’t give a damn about.”

Spike  
hurtled down the list of albums, changing menus with such speed  
that Wesley began to revise his earlier notion that Spike was ‘digitally  
challenged’. “The Ramones, you got me the Ramones’ ‘Pleasant Dreams’!”

Wesley  
covered his ears and winced as the speakers roared into life.

 

 

 

#She's a sensation. She's a sensation.

 

She looks so sweet. She's a sensation.

 

She's a sensation.

 

Good enough to eat.# 

Spike  
silenced the music with a flick of his thumb, his face adopting  
a serious expression, the grin replaced by a slight pursing of the  
lips and a wistful look in his eyes. “Indulged in a little too much  
of that . . . giving in to sensations.  Led to doing some things  
I regret, some bad calls.” Spike rolled his neck and pulled himself  
together with a slight smile. “Had a good ol’ chinwag with Harm the other  
day. Felt I owed her an apology or an explanation at least. Needed to  
set the record straight.”

* * *  
* * *

Having  
no office to crash in was beginning to get on Spike’s wick; he’d  
taken to hanging about in the reception area.  On that particular  
evening he’d perched himself on the edge of Harmony’s desk as she  
was packing up to leave, taking care to avoid the ever-growing collection  
of unicorns.

“Person  
could have a nasty accident on these,” he grumbled, picking up one  
of the larger statuettes and running his finger along the twisted  
horn that ended in a particularly sharp point.

“Only  
if they were doing something a certain other person had told him  
he couldn’t take for granted any more,” replied Harmony, closing  
the desk drawer and switching off her work light.

Spike  
had the good grace to look embarrassed, just for an instant. He  
replaced the unicorn carefully with its deskmates.

“Anyway,”  
Harmony continued, “you look a mess. A certain person wouldn’t  
want to - even if they wanted to.”

Spike  
finished arranging the unicorns; he’d lined them all up with their  
horns pointing towards Harmony. “That the best you can do?” asked  
Spike tilting his head slightly. “If you want to get rid of me,  
just say so. – Anyway, whad’ya mean, mess? Clean togs, fresh on today.”

“Have  
you looked at yourself recently? Your roots are showing.”

“Well,  
as it happens, not recently, no.” Spike rolled his eyes. “Vampire  
\- Reflection. You should know.”

“You  
are so stuck in the Dim Ages, Spike. Camcorder.”

“Come  
again?”

“Camcorder.  
Look.”

Harmony  
swivelled her monitor towards him, revealing her own image. Spike  
swung himself off the desk and over to her side, pulling the screen  
back to its original position. For a moment, he was speechless, amazed  
by what he saw.

“Bloody  
Nora. Look as if I haven’t eaten in years.” He tilted the monitor  
and turned his head for a better view of his profile.

“That’s  
not what I mean. Your roots need doing. ”Harmony gestured at his  
hands. “And your nails. Jeez’ Spike, if that’s what having a soul  
does for you, I’m glad I haven’t got one.” She switched off her computer.  
“C’mon,” she said, dragging him away from the desk.

“Where  
are we goin’?”

“Back  
to my place! You need a lot of work doing on you.”

“Don’t  
think that’s such a good idea, pet. Remember where you doing the  
hair and nails used to lead.”

“Eeeew  
Spike!” Harmony slapped his arm. “So not going there again. No  
– strictly a girlie night. – C’mon. It’ll be fun,” she wheedled.

“Hey!  
\- Watch who you’re calling ‘girlie!”

Spike  
chuckled quietly to himself as he allowed her to pull him towards  
the exit. _Dim Ages!_

___________________________________________________________________

 

 

[Chapter 3. Part 2.](Chapter%203%20Part%202.html)

   
  
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	4. It's in the Genes

  
  
  


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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

 

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****

 

Chapter 4 – It’s  
in the genes.

 

The young man standing beside Gunn didn’t look that special; small, slightly   
–built; hair, mid-length, flopping into dark eyes; USC sweatshirt worn over   
black jeans; just a normal looking boy. Spike mentally breathed a sigh of  
relief.

 

_Not a book worm then. _He’d worried that he might have made  
a mistake in getting tickets for a college football game. _Hope he knows   
the game. I won’t have a bull’s clue what’s going on. Don’t fancy being bored  
witless for hours. _He tried reassuring himself, “Could be fun. At least  
it’ll get me out of here for a while.”

 

He crossed the reception area and made his way to Harmony’s desk. He’d   
left his duster in his office; he didn’t want to scare the boy. Gunn had   
told him to make sure that he was kept clear of any obvious demon types. As  
far as Connor was concerned, Wolfram and Hart was a reputable law firm funding  
his studies as part of their benefactor scheme. Lorne was strictly off limits,  
as were all the demon bars and shady parts of the city. Spike had replaced  
his usual attire with a simple, dark blue button-down shirt worn over black  
pants. He didn’t intend to give Angel any ammunition to further the assertion  
that he still wasn’t entirely trustworthy. He’d even polished his boots.  
As he neared the reception desk, he heard Gunn say,

 

“To conclude, Ms Kendall has outlined your living arrangements and explained   
that we’ve organised for someone to show you the sights. We’re just waiting   
for him to . . .” Gunn spotted Spike and managed to keep the surprise at   
his appearance out of his voice, “Ah, here he comes now”.

 

The boy turned away from Gunn and extended a hand to Spike.

 

“Nice to meet you Mr Sanguinaire.”

 

Gunn raised his eyebrows and silently mouthed,

 

“Mr Sanguinaire?”

 

Ignoring him, Spike smiled. “Call me William.”

 

_See. Angel wants respectable. I can do respectable. Just two  
rungs down from Her Majesty, William is. Can’t get much more respectable  
than that. _

 

Spike grasped Connor’s hand and resisted the urge to drop it immediately   
as his fingers tingled on contact. _Shit! – What the? One of those joke   
shock things?_ He gripped Connor’s hand more firmly but felt nothing other  
than flesh against his palm. There was nothing there except an equally firm  
responding pressure.

 

“You a football fan?” Spike continued aloud. “I got tickets to the college   
game tonight.”

 

“More a soccer fan,” answered Connor. “My Dad’s a big USC supporter though.  
I’d welcome the chance to cheer his team on for him. I guess it’s my team   
too now.”

 

_A soccer fan. Bonus!_Spike had already dismissed the sensation   
of a spark of connection in the handshake, surprised afresh by an unaccustomed   
feeling of pleasurable anticipation. The thought of spending the evening   
in the company of someone who had nothing to do with what was going on at   
Wolfram and Hart, or the more than usually strained relations between himself   
and Angel, was beginning to look more and more attractive. Even if it was   
to be ‘mischief-free’.

 

“Right. Car’s outside. Let’s be off. Don’t wait up, Gunn. I’ll make sure   
Connor’s safely tucked up in his dorm before I come home.” Spike turned to  
Connor, gestured towards the exit, and asked, “So, Connor, who’s your soccer  
team?”

 

“Manchester United.”

 

Spike felt a warm, almost brotherly affection flood through his veins.

 

 

“Call me Will,” he smiled. “All my friends do.” He held the door open  
for Connor. “Or they would do if I had any,” he added, so quietly that  
no one heard him.

 

* * * * *

 

Spike was still mourning his beloved Desoto, lost to him when Buffy and  
the Scoobies took a road trip to escape Glory and her minions.

 

_Pity that. Should have gone with the instinct and just nicked   
the Porsche. Not that it I’d still have it. It’s gone to the big scrap heap   
in the sky, along with everything else in Sunnydale. Still, this jallopy   
comes with all mod cons. Shouldn’t complain._

 

He eased the Viper into the early evening traffic, resisting the urge  
to put his foot down, to give in to the need to overcome his restlessness  
by indulging in some fast, adrenaline-pumping lane-cutting. He flicked his   
eyes over to Connor. The boy was almost as tense as he was. He sat, with   
poker-straight back, focusing on the road ahead, chewing his lip. Spike could  
feel his apprehension, could see it in the way his hands gripped his seatbelt,  
could smell it in the scent of his sweat.

 

“So, college boy, who’d you have to kill to get the scholarship?”

 

Connor flinched. “Kill?” His eyes darted to Spike’s face. “ – Oh, You’re  
joking, right? This is that weird British humour Dad keeps quoting from  
those Monty Python videos he’s so fond of?”

 

“Joking? Well, right, yeah.” Spike inwardly cursed himself. _Stupid  
prat. What d’you say that for?_

 

“Didn’t need to kill anyone. Didn’t even have to apply for it. Was going   
to take a place at Cornell but my Principal called Dad and told him that  
Wolfram and Hart had a fully funded place here for me. I fulfilled the criteria,   
apparently.”

 

Connor fidgeted in his seat. He’d felt uneasy when he’d arrived at the   
offices earlier that day and discovered that no one was really interested   
in his college studies. He was even more uneasy now.

 

“USC is Dad’s old college.”

 

“Mmm? What?” Spike had been concentrating on negotiating an intersection   
and wasn’t really listening.

 

Connor stared at him. “You’re not a lawyer are you?”

 

The question took Spike by surprise. He hadn’t prepared himself for this.  
Truth to tell, he hadn’t really prepared for anything other than escaping   
the building for a while.

 

“On secondment,” he blurted. “Visiting Prof. from Magdalen Oxford.” Spike   
plucked his old college from the depths of his memory. “Getting a taste of  
colonial culture.”

 

“Visiting professor? You’re not old enough!” exclaimed Connor.

 

“I’m older than I look,” replied Spike, fumbling with the controls of  
the CD player. – "A lot older,” he added under his breath. “Got good skin.  
It runs in the family - on my mother’s side. Let’s have some music shall  
we?”

 

The CD player began playing, picking up the track at the point it had  
reached when he’d last used the car.

 

# I did it m - y- y w –a –a –a –y! #

 

“You are old!”

 

Spike hastily silenced the player. “’S not mine,” he spluttered. “Last   
bloke that used the car. Probably the Boss, now he’s really old, positively   
ancient in fact. Old enough to be my grandfather.” Spike tried a change of  
topic. “Your parents; they live close by?”

 

“Uh huh,” replied Connor, staring out of the window. "One of the reasons   
I accepted the funding from Wolfram and Hart, to stay close to the folks."

 

 

They were nearing the stadium on campus. Spike could see spectators milling  
around the entrance gates, their allegiance to their team providing a splash   
of colour in the deepening gloom of evening; the maroons and dark gold of   
the home team in clear contrast with the blues and gold of the visitors.

 

“We could park here if you like. I don’t mind the walk,” said Connor.

 

“Right you are. What do I need to take in with me?”

 

“Just something warm to wear over your shirt. It’ll really chill down  
now that the sun’s set.”

 

“’S cold enough to freeze the balls off the proverbial brass monkey already,”   
complained Spike as he reached for a coat from the rear seat. Dark blue.   
Rival team’s colours. “Should be interesting,” he chortled happily.

 

* * * * *

 

The stadium was alive with noise and movement and colour. The cheerleaders   
were going through their paces, working up the fans with their display of   
gymnastics-cum-dance-cum-

 

_Downright provocative dress code,_ reflected Spike. "Beats   
the socks off anything the footie warm-up has to offer," he yelled to Connor.   
"I’d rather watch this than a marching band and some smelly ceremonial mascot   
called Billy or Nanny."

 

Connor stared at him, puzzled.

 

"Goat," Spike explained.

 

Connor led the way to their seats, greeting friends as they moved down   
the steps and along their row. Spike felt a twinge of envy as he watched   
the boy mingling so obviously at ease with his peers. As they took their   
places, the public address system began the announcements, introducing the   
teams and their players. "Which is ours?" he asked, though he knew only too   
well which colours belonged to which team.

 

"USC are in maroon and gold," Connor reminded him,

 

"Is everyone here supporting USC?" Spike looked around. He was in the  
middle of a sea of maroon and gold; the aisle to his left denoting the no-man’s   
land separating them from the blues and gold of the visiting supporters. "Fine.  
Then I’m gonna have to shout for the other side aren’t I?” he grinned “Seein’  
as I’m wearing the colour. Who’d you say they were?"

 

"Notre Dame. But I don’t think that’s such a good . . ."

 

"Relax, kid. It’ll be fine. Just adds to the evening’s entertainment.”

 

 

Connor looked doubtful, but there was no time for further argument, as   
at that very moment, the referee signalled for play to begin. Spike realised   
he needn’t have worried about being bored. The running commentary over the  
tannoy was describing the play as it happened.

 

Spike could smell the adrenaline, hear the blood pumping through twenty-two   
bodies; their lungs heaving with exertion. "Who was it said that wars were   
won and lost on the playing fields of Eton?" he asked of no one in particular.   
"Whoever it was, knew what they were talking about." He felt the clash of   
bodies as the Notre Dame linebackers blocked USC’s offensive line, while   
the quarterback made his first throw to the receiver. "That was bloody marvellous,"   
he shouted, as five bodies hit the turf. "Is it allowed?"

 

"It’s called blocking. It’s what the front line does," explained Connor.

 

The commentator’s voice rose with mounting excitement, "Second down and  
seven yards to go. Play action pass to Carter on the forty-two yard line.  
Touchdown!…"

 

The Stadium erupted as the home team chalked up its first points.

 

By the end of the first quarter, Spike was virtually hoarse, and in desperate   
need of a drink. "What can I get you?" he asked Connor as he made his way   
to the end of the row towards the man he’d spotted selling snacks from a   
tray.

 

"Diet Coke is fine"

 

"Anything to eat?"

 

"No, just a Coke, thanks."

 

* * * * *

 

The second quarter began before Spike had finished his beer. "Alcohol  
free," he’d assured Connor with a grimace. "Bloody awful stuff." He focussed  
his attention on the spectators. It was so different from the football stadiums   
of England. There were whole families here, kitted out in their team’s colours,   
sitting chatting to one another, joking, drinking soft drinks, eating popcorn   
or hot dogs, occasionally arguing with a neighbour over a point of play.   
"Happy meals on legs," he murmered to himself. _Would’ve taken great pleasure   
partaking once-upon-a-time. _Spike bit deep into his second hot dog. "Why   
‘s it called a hot dog?" he asked Connor. "It’s neither hot, nor dog - I hope."

 

Connor wasn’t listening. He was on his feet, like many other USC supporters.  
"No way!" he shouted. "Where’s the yellow flag? That was illegal contact!   
Did you see that Will?"

 

"What?" Spike had been so engrossed in his own thoughts, that he’d stopped   
listening to the match commentary.

 

"The quarterback was hit after he’d released the ball."

 

"And that’s not allowed, I’m thinking? Unlike blocking, which is." Spike  
turned his attention to the pitch once more. Play had come to a halt. Players  
were shoving each other around the field as the USC’s quarterback slowly  
picked himself up off the ground, shaking his head. The referee was surrounded  
by a group of angry USC players yelling and gesticulating their discontent  
with his decision. Some of their team-mates went further; there was an eruption   
of violence, fists flailing, feet stamping on fallen victims felled by vicious   
blows raining down from numerous opponents.

 

"I take it that’s against the rules too?" Spike was impressed. The evening   
was turning out to be more fun that he could ever have anticipated. But there  
was one ingredient missing; audience participation. "Hey Ref. Are you blind?  
Where's your white stick?" he bellowed "

 

Spike waited for the violence to spill over onto the terraces. He didn’t   
wait long. Within seconds opposing supporters were arguing in those parts   
of the stadium where their seating was adjacent. Connor was already in full   
flight, exchanging insults across the aisle with a college boy sporting a  
blue and gold sweatshirt. Spike was wondering if he should intervene before  
things became physical when he detected the hot dog seller making his way   
rapidly up the steps, his tray discarded at the bottom of the flight, his   
attention fixed on Connor.

 

As he drew level, the man grabbed Connor by the shoulders, swung him round   
and hit him, hard, in the face. Connor left the ground as the impact forced   
him backwards and into the row behind. Spike vaulted the seats and hauled   
Connor to his feet. Connor’s nose was bleeding heavily and Spike had to fight  
the sudden urge to vamp out as he caught the familiar smell. He had no time  
to think; three more figures were converging on Connor, two from his left,  
one from his right. On regaining his feet, Connor adopted a defensive position,  
back-to-back with Spike. He blocked the blows from his assailants, executing  
a perfect snapkick that sent one head over heels, and flooring the other  
with an equally well-executed uppercut followed by a sidekick. Spike, meanwhile,  
had easily dispatched his two attackers, sending them hurtling to the bottom  
of the steps. Sensing an opportunity to retreat, he grabbed Connor by the  
hand and dragged him towards the exit. "We’ve gotta get out of here!" he  
yelled.

 

Connor didn’t waste time arguing. He didn’t know what he’d done to provoke  
such a vicious attack; nothing like this had ever happened to him at a  
game before; but he knew, instinctively, that he didn’t want to stay and  
find out. Together, he and Spike fled from the stadium and out into the parking   
lot. The car was some way off and Spike could hear the four whatever-they-were,   
not human anyway, gaining ground behind them. He looked around, searching   
for a means of escape. "And there it is!" he shouted to Connor as he raced   
across the street to the Harley Davidson parked alongside the stand selling   
pizza. "Come on!"

 

Connor hesitated, just for an instant, then leapt on behind him. Spike   
opened up the throttle and roared away, leaving the sounds of the yells of  
the bike’s outraged owner and the feet of their pursuers fading rapidly in  
the distance.

 

* * * * *

 

Spike brought the bike to a halt outside the building Connor had indicated   
housed his dorm. "That got a bit out of hand, didn’t it? Are all games like   
that? Or just college ones?"

 

"You did pay for the hot dogs, didn’t you?" responded Connor, ignoring   
his questions, "because the only explanation I can come up with is that you  
owed those guys money." Connor tried, unsuccessfully, to pass the incident   
off lightly.

 

"Wasn’t me they were after." Spike didn’t feel inclined to play along.   
"Looks like another attack on a Fresher to me."

 

Connor laughed. "Good thing I pestered Dad for all those martial arts  
lessons then. They certainly paid off tonight. Didn’t think I could hit  
that hard though. Never had to use the moves in anger before."

 

"You handled yourself pretty well for a kid," conceded Spike, unwilling  
to reveal just how impressed he’d been with Connor’s fighting skills. It  
wouldn’t do to fill the boy’s head with praise of that sort. “You gonna  
be OK?” he asked jerking his head towards the entrance door.

 

“I’ll be fine. Security’s been really tight since the attack.”

 

"How’s the nose?" asked Spike, grasping Connor’s chin and turning his   
face to the porch light.

 

"Feels fine," replied Connor touching it gingerly.

 

"Looks fine," agreed Spike frowning. Save for some minor discoloration   
under one eye, there was no sign that the boy had just been in a savage fight._  
Could have sworn it’d been broken, or at the very least badly bruised._

 

"Always heal quickly. Got good genes," explained Connor as he opened the   
door. "Get them from my Dad."

   
  
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	5. Respecting the ancestors

  
  
  


 

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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

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**Chapter  
5\. **Respecting the ancestors

 

Angel had found nothing in the Special Clients’ File Lilah had mentioned  
in the video. Or, to be more accurate, he’d found no trace of _any Special  
Clients’ File_. Harmony had assured him that if it were to be found,  
her friend, Bob from the Files and Records’ Department would have discovered  
it. But, according to Eve, the special client _did_ exist and Spike  
had killed his son. Angel wondered why Lilah would deliberately mislead him  
about the file. There was nothing to be gained in doing that. So, if the  
file existed, what else was being kept from him? He felt his command of Wolfram  
and Hart slipping further away, together with his friends. He headed for  
Wesley’s office, apprehension fuelling his feeling that things were spiralling  
out of control. _Was it only a couple of months ago we had that picnic?  
Feels like a lifetime. _

 

Wesley looked up from the pile of papers he was rifling through on his  
desk when Angel entered the former Watcher’s office. “What on earth did  
you say to Spike that made him change his mind about working with us?” Wesley  
asked. “I couldn’t believe it at first, Spike, being helpful. But he gave  
me a very full account of his drunken night in that bar. Well as much as  
he could remember anyway. It appears that he consumed rather a lot. He  
was involved in a drinking contest with the demon before the argument began.”

 

“Typical. He never could resist a challenge.” Angel stood gazing at the   
jumble on Wesley’s desk looking glum. He’d been trying, unsuccessfully, to  
gather the information he’d asked the team to get for him. The thought that  
Spike might be the only one to have provided any didn’t fill him with confidence.

 

“Yes, well. He’s given me enough to go on. I should be able to come up  
with something soon. But when I find out what sort of demon we’re dealing  
with, I’m going to need more input to try to make sense of just what this  
honour price might involve.”

 

Wesley looked at Angel, sensing the disappointment he’d caused by the   
lack of anything specific to report. “I have, however, had more success with  
The Brehon Laws.” He picked up a book that was balanced precariously on  
top of a lop-sided mountain of folders. “Ah – here it is,” he brandished  
a single sheet of paper marking a page. “My initial searches proved somewhat  
inconclusive. They’re written in the oldest dialect of the Irish language,  
Bairla-faina. Even those about to become Brehons at the time of their writing  
needed special instruction in it.”

 

Angel gave Wesley a blank stare and raised his eyebrows. He was in for  
one of those explanations that always left him more confused when they  
were over than he’d been before they’d begun; he just knew it.

 

“There are Commentaries of course,” continued Wesley.

 

“Of course.” _There always are._

 

“ . . . written by learned Brehons, hundreds of years later. Unfortunately,  
they are no clearer.”

 

What a surprise. Angel stared at the single sheet of paper in Wesley’s  
hand. There wasn’t much on it. _When did Wes abandon his pen for a printer?_  
he wondered.

 

“The translators are often quite at fault in their attempts to explain  
the texts. Their wording shows that they were fully conscious of the difficulty.  
The number of technical terms and phrases they use render the translations  
even more complex.”

 

Angel didn’t think he could bear the thought of having to sit though  
the ins and outs of Wes’ dusty books. “But have you come up with anything  
at all that might help?”

 

“Yes, well. I turned to the more recently written Book of Acaill, which   
is chiefly taken up with the law of torts and injuries. Piecing together   
what I’ve learned about an individual’s identity being defined in terms of  
clan and personal wealth, I’ve been able to establish that you, as head of  
. . “ Wesley paused, he wasn’t too sure what Angel was head of any more.   
He began again, “As head of Wolfram and Hart’s L.A. branch, you are considered   
to be of the highest rank. Think of it in terms of a being a nobleman. The   
honour price is a strange mutual dependence that existed between nobles and  
their clients.”

 

Angel couldn’t contain his impatience any longer. Wesley in full research  
mode was just too much for him right now. “Wes, I really don’t see where  
you’re going with this; with the noblemen and clients.”

 

“This special client chose to insert the clause about the honour price  
for a reason,” he said, patiently. “You, as his modern-day ‘creditor nobleman’  
stand to lose the most for a breach of the contract. Lower ranks would  
be fined a proportion of the honour price for each offence against the  
law, the full amount being required for the third offence. For someone  
in your position . . . ” Wesley hesitated.

 

Angel stifled his unease and waited for the punch-line.

 

Wesley looked up from his paper. “The law demands most from those who   
have received the most. For a first offence, you are required to pay the   
full honour price.”

 

Angel felt a sharp pain in his gut. _The law demands most from those  
who have received the most. The full honour price. _“What? No three-strike’s  
rule?”

 

“I’m afraid not.” Wesley removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “There’s   
worse news, I’m afraid, Angel. Honour prices are central to the operation  
of Brehon laws. Clients seek out creditors with the highest status, to  
gain the highest honour price. Before we can work on a plan of action,  
we’re going to need Gunn’s help interpreting just what this payment involves  
and, if necessary, how to avoid it.”

 

And therein lay the problem. Gunn hadn’t reported back with any information.  
Angel had paged him several times but had had no response. He’d resorted  
to the ultimate Wolfram and Hart weapon; the inter-office memo.

 

* * * * *

 

Charles Gunn was a busy man. He didn’t see why interpreting one clause  
in Angel’s contract was so important. It was pretty straightforward, yet  
Angel was making heavy weather of it. Okay, the guy was not known for his  
incisive mind, but hell, what was it going to take to make him understand?  
He couldn’t put it in any simpler form than he’d already done three times  
in the last twenty-five minutes.

 

Gunn took a deep breath. “OK, let’s take it one more time.” He pointed  
to a paragraph in the document lying on the top of the files he’d arranged  
on Angel’s desk. “This part here, where it says ‘Progeny’s Blood’. Just  
what’s the problem?”

 

“What does it mean?” replied Angel wearily. He was feeling giddy. This  
was Gunn’s fourth attempt at interpreting the phrase and he still wasn’t  
making any sense.

 

Gunn turned to one of the files, opened it and took out a thick sheaf   
of closely typed papers. “According to the Interpretation Clause, Progeny’s  
Blood is _‘the blood of the progeny’_.”

 

“Yes?” Angel waited.

 

“OK. Let’s take _‘Progeny’s blood’_. Blood is defined as - _‘life  
essence’_. Progeny is defined as -_‘Your progeny’_.”

 

Angel raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t there any more?”

 

“More what? On progeny? That’s _‘Your progeny’_.”

 

“You said that already!” Angel tapped his foot impatiently.

 

“"Progeny means Your progeny.”

 

Angel tried counting to ten. And waited.

 

“_ ‘Your_ would be _You _\- Angel, Angelus, Liam of Galway,  
as signatory to the contract.”

 

“I know who I am,” stormed Angel, leaving his seat, unable to contain   
himself any longer.

 

“That’s something then,” said Gunn, calmly. “Is everything else clear   
now?”

 

Angel felt as though he was living in a nightmare in which Gunn was speaking   
a foreign language. The words were familiar, but he was just as far from  
an explanation as he had been when they’d started over thirty minutes earlier.  
. ‘He sank back into his chair, wiping a hand across his eyes, as if the  
action could make everything clearer, but it didn’t. Restlessly, he leaned  
forward again, resting his elbows on the desk and propping his chin on his  
open palm. He considered what Gunn was trying to explain to him, sighed  
deeply, and said, “So, according to your interpretation, my progeny’s blood,  
is . . . my progeny’s blood?”

 

“You got it, big guy. Can I go now? Things to do, people to meet.”

 

Angel sighed again. There didn’t seem much point in questioning Gunn  
any further. He was no closer to understanding the real meaning of the phrase   
than he had been when Gunn had entered his office, looking irritated at having  
been dragged away from ‘more important things’.

 

“No. That’s fine. I’ll catch you later if I need anything more.”

 

Gunn looked relieved, picked his files off the desk and left.

 

Angel felt lost. Only Wesley seemed to be actively involved in searching  
for information that might help him. The others seemed oblivious to the  
seriousness of the situation; too wrapped up in departmental politics that  
seemed to have ‘gone critical’ according to Fred. Angel wasn’t sure if she  
was using science-speak about departmental staff, or referring to something  
specific he’d rather not know about in the lab. And she wasn’t the only one;  
Lorne had been out of the loop since they’d arrived at Wolfram and Hart.  
_Up to his horns in B-list celebrities and goodness knows what  
else_.

 

Angel didn’t know just how much of the previous two years had been wiped  
from their memories. What he did know was that he had a duty to try to  
put things right, to bring each of them back to the mission; to remind  
them just how they fitted into the family. But before he could do that, he  
needed to prepare himself, mentally and physically for the difficult task  
that lay ahead of him. Rallying the troops to the mission wouldn’t be easy  
but he had to try. _And Spike?_

 

* * * * * *

 

 _Arms moving in fluid motion. Hands that had bestowed only pain   
on him, circling, extending, flexing pectoral muscles as they moved across   
the broad, naked chest. Beauty and grace. Fingers sweeping the air, barely   
disturbing it, delicate as a bird’s wing. Power and control. _

 

Spike watched with mixed emotions as Angel brought the final movement   
to an end. Angel, still oblivious to his presence, reached for the sword   
lying on his desk. The leaf-shaped blade bore witness to its Celtic origins,   
its double-edge glinting in the desk-light.

 

Spike cleared his throat. “What are you doing? ‘S a strange time to be  
practising the finer points of swordplay.” He stepped further into the  
room, closing the door behind him as he did so.

 

Angel paused, centring his body once more. Then he relaxed and replied,   
“There’s an old Irish proverb, ‘Am fear a thug buaidh air fhein, thug e buaidh  
air namhaid’.”

 

_Well that explains the no yelling about not knocking_, thought  
Spike. “Meaning?” he said aloud.

 

“He who conquers himself, conquers an enemy.” Angel returned the sword  
to its place on the wall behind his desk and retrieved his shirt from where  
he’d left it draped across the back of a chair in the centre of the room.  
“This isn’t just any demon we’re facing here, Spike. The contract is rooted  
in ancient Celtic Law for a reason; the honour price is just part of it.  
As head of the family, I’m the one responsible. According to clan tradition,  
if I lose face, I’m unfit to protect anyone. What’s left for me if I lose  
that? Theid duine gu bàs air sgàth an nàire” _(A  
man will die to save his honour.) _

 

“Another Irish Proverb? You really are still just a bogtrotter at heart,  
aren’t you _Liam_? And what’s with the notion of honour among demons?  
You don’t fight fair with demons. You fight my way, dirty.” beamed Spike.  
Before Angel could comment on his knowledge of Gaelic, he continued, “What’s  
clan tradition got to do with anything anyway? We’re not a clan.”

 

Angel wasn’t going to argue the case of the Aurelius clan with Spike.   
“It helps me remember how things should be done. It’d do you no harm to   
do the same. When was the last time you showed any respect for your ancestors?”

 

Spike grinned. He was in a good mood; even His Grouchiness couldn’t dampen  
it. He’d enjoyed his time with Connor the previous evening. He’d felt connected  
somehow. It was his first time at a family event, the first time he’d experienced  
the atmosphere that came with cheering on the under-dogs and the consumption  
of too many hot dogs and too much alcohol-free beer. He’d been to a few  
football matches where he’d eaten the supporters, but not one where he’d  
experienced simple camaraderie with a stranger. True, the fight had been  
an unexpected bonus. What he’d planned as a mischief-free night had provided  
a little fun with no blame that could be laid at his doorstep. Spike realised  
the absurdity of what had happened; even before the fight, his restlessness  
had left him. Perhaps dying for mankind had done him some good after all.

 

 

He wasn’t letting Angel off the hook though. _Respect for your ancestors?  
Pompous bastard! _“That  
would have been Mother. Um . . . before Dru found me,” he said with a smile.  
“Don’t recall you showing any respect for yours before. Ate the lot, so  
I’ve been told.”

 

Angel glowered at him and choked back a response to his impertinence.   
From what he’d heard, Spike’s mother hadn’t fared too well after he’d met   
Drusilla, either. But this really wasn’t the time to go raking up the history   
of their respective human families. Besides, this wasn’t just about their   
human families - it went deeper than that. This was about kinship, not just   
about blood relations, but the family that had formed to fight alongside him,  
helping the helpless. He pulled his shirt around his shoulders and began fastening  
buttons. _Helping the helpless. When did I lose sight of that?_he wondered  
as he tucked his shirt into his pants and made his way back to his desk.

 

Meanwhile, Spike had ambled over to the wall where Angel’s weapons were   
displayed and was examining the elaborately carved scabbard into which Angel  
had placed the sword. “Where’d this sudden concern for respecting ancestors  
come from anyway?” Spike asked. “We’re _vampires_, we don’t operate  
the same as humans; I know that only too bloody well. Can’t say that I ever  
enjoyed being part of the little group you and Darla abused. You never accepted  
that I was one of you even then, did you?”

 

“That’s because you never learned your lessons. How many times did I  
come close to killing you because you refused to show proper respect?”

 

“Pfft! You never did though, did you?” Spike swung round and faced Angel.  
“Why was that Peaches? Not man enough for the job?”

 

“Not the issue. You were family, still are. Blood calling to blood. There  
were better ways.”

 

“Oh, you mean through Dru. You really did a good job on me there, didn’t   
you? Made sure I was brought to heel every time she ran back to ‘daddy’.   
Rule by torment. Is that how you do things still?”

 

“It’s different now. I’m different now. And so are you.” Angel sat down   
at his desk and switched his computer on.

 

“Doesn’t look too different from where I stand. You’re still doing things  
that affect everyone else to suit your own purposes. That’s what got you   
into this mess in the first place. Did you honestly think that doing this   
deal would have no consequences? You should know better. Where magic’s involved  
there’s always consequences.”

 

“I thought you’d agreed to help,” Angel snapped. “If your idea of help  
is lecturing me, criticising my methods, and raking up ancient history,  
I’ll be better off without it . . . . Why are you here, anyway?”

 

_Keep asking myself the same thing._ “Hit a nerve eh?” Spike   
taunted. Something in Angel’s attitude rankled. He really believed that he  
was head of this human family he’d damaged when he’d taken them into the  
belly of the Beast, and was searching for a way to bring them back together   
under his leadership and protection. _Only one way to do that, _thought   
Spike. _But he’ll never agree to it._

 

“I’m trying to make things right again, the best way I know how, by taking   
responsibility as their leader. Something you’d know nothing about.” Angel  
confirmed Spike’s suspicions.

 

Spike had always been indifferent to rank, acting on the moment; he did   
what was right for him to do at the time. Nowadays he felt . . . What was   
it he felt? All at sea – rudderless - that was it. Once upon a time Buffy   
had been his guiding star; and he’d become her white knight with the bauble.   
But that fairy-tale was over. It had ended at the Hellmouth, where he should   
have ended too. “Mixed my metaphors good and proper there, didn’t I? ’S what  
happens when you think too much.” Spike whispered tracing the elaborately   
carved Celtic knots on the handle of the letter-opener on Angel’s desk.

 

He watched as Angel combed his hair, using the webcam as a mirror just  
as Harmony had done earlier in the week. Spike sighed. _Can’t be doing  
with ‘should-haves’._ He was here, now, with Angel, not Buffy. Without  
her, he just didn’t know why he should bother caring for anyone. But he  
did. Against everything that was logical, he cared about Angel’s little  
screwed-up band. They’d not exactly welcomed him into their midst, but they  
hadn’t rejected him either, not like that self-righteous bunch of hangers-on,  
the Scumbags. True, he hadn’t tried to kill or torture any of Angel’s lot,  
but they’d given him the benefit of the doubt. They’d even tolerated his  
demands for attention when he was all ghostly. And Angel? Well, no, he’d  
not exactly tolerated him; more like tried his best to get rid of, one way  
or another. But Angel was in most need of him sticking around.

 

Spike hadn’t exactly lied to Wesley when he’d denied that he was involved  
in a crusade, but he hadn’t told the whole truth either. He recognised  
that Angel was the one who was lost, the helpless one in need of the help.  
Spike couldn’t see anyone else able to give Angel what he needed, as no  
one else knew what was really going on. Why should he help Angel? Spike  
didn’t know the answer to that one. But he knew he was going to help him.  
“Whether he likes it or not,” he muttered.

 

Angel switched off his monitor and looked across at Spike, who was examining  
the photos on the desk. “Did you say something?”

 

“I said, what are you planning to do?” replied Spike.

 

“Talk to them,” replied Angel, switching off the monitor. “Make them  
see why we need to work together as a team; like we used to.”

 

“Talking? Oh that’ll work!” scoffed Spike. “I _have _to be there   
when you try to avoid the whole topic of how you bolloxed things up.”

 

“You’re not invited!” growled Angel. “I’m not letting you mess up the   
one chance I have of pulling things back together.”

 

“Don’t need me to mess up, Peaches. You’ve already done that; and It’s  
gonna take a bigger Band-Aid than anything you might have to say to patch  
it up.”

   
  
---|---


	6. Sins of the Father

  
  
  


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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

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**Chapter   
6\. **Sins of the Father****

 

Angel had prepared himself for what was to come later. He’d  
spent hours with the sword, practising, focusing channelling his energy,  
regaining an inner calm. He’d been trying to meditate, but the office wasn’t  
exactly the best place to do that. He’d been interrupted too many times  
that morning by Harmony’s insistence that he attend to trivia. And so Angel  
had allowed himself to slip into the more agreeable practice – of brooding.  
He didn’t mind her interrupting that. He was worried by what Wesley had  
suggested, after his talk with Spike about his soul, and really didn’t know  
if he could go through with it. It reduced him to dependence on Spike, who  
had beaten him so soundly over that damned Cup. Why had that happened? Had  
he wanted Spike to beat him to it, to take it from him, to spare him the  
pain and torment it promised? If that were true, what did that make him?

 

“A coward.” Angel spoke the words aloud. Was that how Spike viewed him?  
_He wore the amulet for Buffy because he thought I’d backed off  
\- that certainly suggests he does. And if I let him do what Wes suggests  
for me_ \- Angel’s thoughts were interrupted again as Harmony’s voice chirruped  
down the phone for the third time in ten minutes. This time, it was with  
something that couldn’t wait. Angel had called a meeting.

 

“It’s 10 o’clock Boss. They’re here.”

 

Moments later, Harmony entered the room carrying a tray. Wesley, holding   
the door open for her, was followed by the others. Gunn first, glancing anxiously  
at his watch. Then Lorne, hastily snapping shut his mobile phone and setting  
it to vibrate mode. Finally Spike, taking care to stub out his cigarette  
on the freshly polished corridor floor with his boot. He glanced at his Grandsire  
from under his lashes as Wesley closed the door behind him.

 

“I told you, you’re not invited!” said Angel, moving towards Spike, his  
hands reaching for the collar of his duster.

 

Wesley quickly stepped between them. “I think, perhaps, we do need Spike   
to sit in on this. He is working with us now after all, and he may be able  
to add something useful to the information you asked me to find on the  
demon he killed.”

 

Angel swallowed hard and lowered his arms. “Alright,” he said. ”But you,”   
he jabbed a finger at Spike, “stand over there, where I don’t have to look   
at you, and don’t interrupt.”

 

Spike smirked happily, gave him the V-sign and Wesley the thumbs-up.

 

Wesley wondered what had happened since he’d last spoken to the two vampires.  
Their relationship was certainly mercurial and one that couldn’t be fully   
understood by a human. He began speaking again before everyone had settled   
themselves into various seats; in Spike’s case the wall he’d selected to   
lean against. “Angel asked me to do a little research on the Gouki demon Spike  
killed.”

 

Harmony pouted, she hadn’t had a chance to offer the refreshments she’d  
prepared and the meeting had already started. She knew that Angel expected  
her to leave the room and she really needed to talk to Spike. Throwing him  
a broad smile, she mimed a voiceless “Talk to you later,” and left.

 

Spike shrugged. He had no idea what Harmony might want and right now his   
mind was focussed on what Wesley had to say.

 

“Spike, your demon was not of pure blood,” he heard Wesley continue. “He’s   
the eldest born of a Gouki who goes by the name of Jenoff, and Jahi, a female   
Soul-Eater of the Khephn clan.”

 

Wesley’s exposition was interrupted as the door burst open and a breathless,   
flustered Fred entered. “So sorry I’m late. Knox and I got caught up in something  
long and involved,” she stammered, “and I just couldn’t tear myself away  
without seeing it through to completion.” She glanced, red-faced at Wesley  
who had fixed her with a steely stare over the top of his glasses.

 

 

Angel waved her to the empty seat beside Gunn with a wry smile. _Everybody’s   
busy. It’s what they’re too busy with that worries me._

 

“The Kephn are just one rung below ‘King’ in the demon hierarchy,” Wesley  
went on. “One might call them the ‘Dukes of the Underworld’. The Gouki  
are virtually impossible to kill, being immune to all the usual weapons.  
Even decapitation doesn’t work, apparently, since they possess a remarkable  
ability of instant regeneration.”

 

“Didn’t notice mine doing any of that,” said Spike “Must’ve taken after   
his mother’s side then.”

 

Something clicked into place in Gunn’s mind. “Sounds like the demon you  
cheated, Angel,” said Gunn “Jenoff’s calling in an old debt. Always knew  
he played a good waiting game. Didn’t know he played Revenge so well though.”

 

“Revenge is a meal best eaten cold,” Angel murmured from his chair beside   
Wesley. _Gunn remembers the incident with Jenoff? How much more does he   
remember from that time?_

 

“Another Irish proverb?” Spike asked. “You gonna send us to sleep us with   
fairy tales of leprechauns as well?”

 

“What?” Angel shot him a warning glance. “No. Just thinking out loud.”   
He turned his attention back to Gunn. “It can’t possibly be the same demon.   
That was over a year ago. We high-tailed it out of that club having lit the  
blue touch paper to a revolution. I remember leaving Jenoff under a pile  
of demons baying for his blood.”

 

“It would appear that Jenoff survived the attempted coup,” Wesley continued.   
“But we don’t know that he’s behind the continuing attacks on students at  
USC, nor do we know why our departmental workers are questioning our authority.   
We need more information. Specifically, what is it that this demon demands   
as his Honour Price?”

 

“I’ve a pretty good idea.” All heads swung towards Spike.

 

“Would you care to elaborate?” asked Wesley.

 

“Not my place to tell,” he grimaced. “Angel’s the bloke telling the stories.”

 

 

Attention moved from Spike to Angel, who cleared his throat. He’d prepared  
himself for this moment. It was his one chance to make them understand  
the necessity of operating as a team again. It didn’t matter who had been  
responsible for the disintegration, what was important was bringing them  
back together once more. He stood and walked over to the window. Turning  
his back on the view, he faced them and began. “You remember why we’re all  
here?”

 

“’Cos you called a meeting, you pillock! Get on with it,” Spike heckled.

 

“Not the meeting!” Angel glared at Spike. So much for hoping he might  
show him some respect. “What brought us together? What we’re here to do?  
Why we stay together? The mission.”

 

“Mission!” Spike snorted. “’S that what you call cosying up to the enemy?”

 

Angel ignored him and turned to Gunn and Wesley. “Angel Investigations   
was all about the mission. You guys taught me that. We helped the helpless,  
one by one.” He addressed Gunn directly, “You’ve become obsessed with a  
job you didn’t set out to do when you joined us. We thought we could do  
more from the inside of this place but that’s not what’s happening. We’re  
losing sight of what we’re really here for; and it’s not playing golf or  
defending evil clients.”

 

Gunn opened his mouth to respond, but Angel held up his hand and cut him   
off. “You can argue with me after I’ve finished,” he said firmly. “We’re   
not working together as a team any more and it’s showing. We’re weak if we   
continue to operate separately. We can’t change anything from within unless   
we’re together in unity of purpose. All our strength is in our union, all   
our danger is in discord.”

 

“Longfellow,” murmured Wesley. “Therefore be at peace henceforward, And  
as brothers live together - the coming together of the tribes.”

 

“Huh! Unity of purpose,” scoffed Spike. “And we all know who’s purpose   
you mean by that don’t we?”

 

Angel resisted the urge to knock the cocky expression off Spike’s face   
and turned instead to Fred, who was nervously fiddling with her hair. “You’re   
busy locked up in that lab with Knox, working on projects for Wolfram and   
Hart ‘til the early hours. In fact, you’re so wrapped up in that damned lab  
you keep forgetting to eat.”

 

“I have been working hard on the projects,” admitted Fred. “But I do eat,   
“ she added indignantly. “I could be more efficient with my time management,  
I’m sure I could. It’s just a question of organisation and I suppose a  
little delegation wouldn’t hurt.”

 

“And Lorne,” Angel swung round to face him just as he was reaching into  
his pocket to answer his vibrating phone, “you have your ear clamped to  
that damn cell phone every time I pass you in the corridor. We just don’t  
make time to support each other any more. It seems to me that we’ve lost  
sight of what we promised to do here. And it wasn’t to indulge ourselves  
in all the pretty toys, or to party from one end of the week to the other.”

 

“I could re-schedule my 2 o’clock with J-Lo if that’s of any use?” Lorne   
offered, removing his hand from inside his jacket.

 

“Perhaps you should arrange a team building weekend, Angel,” Spike smirked.   
“You could build a raft. You certainly need one. This ship’s sinking fast.”

 

“Shut up, Spike!” Angel felt the strands of self-control beginning to  
unravel.

 

“We should have a night-out,” ventured Lorne, taking up Spike’s theme  
enthusiastically.

 

“What a wonderful idea,” agreed Wesley. “Just what we need, time together.   
How about this evening?”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t make this evening,” stammered Fred. “I have to   
go over some tests with Knox and they really can’t wait. What about lunch   
tomorrow instead?”

 

“No can do, sweetcakes. Final run-through of the schedule for Friday night,   
all day tomorrow. Working lunch included.”

 

“Well then . . . “ Fred started again.

 

“Anyone any objections to extending this meeting over lunch today?” asked  
Wesley looking round. “No?” he said before Angel could object. “Then all   
we need decide is where we eat.”

 

“I vote Chinese,” said Gunn.

 

“There’s a darling little sushi place, Van suggested it, apparently their   
Akagai is divine . . . “ began Lorne.

 

Angel looked at them all in turn, a bemused expression on his face. _What   
are they doing? _

 

“Not raw bloody fish,” grumbled Spike. “What about Thai? They do this  
great hot . . .”

 

“Nothing too spicy,” said Fred. “I’ve been having a little problem with  
my digestion. I think it’s all the late nights.”

 

“You’re not coming,” snapped Angel, rounding on Spike. “I told you I didn’t  
want you at this meeting, and you’re certainly not getting a free lunch  
out of this. Besides, daylight, neither of us can go out to eat. We can’t  
exactly stroll along the sidewalk checking out menus, can we?”

 

“The others could check out menus for us,” grumbled Spike. “Besides, there’s  
nothing wrong with a quick dash from the car, under cover. Well, apart  
from a little smoking.” He pushed himself off the wall and strolled over  
to Angel’s desk. “Oh, forgot there for a mo’. The Big Cheese doesn’t do  
undignified,” he taunted, running his hands along the desk's highly polished  
surface.

 

Angel felt all control of the meeting slipping away. His carefully prepared   
pep talk had been hijacked somehow. _How did that happen? Spike!_

 

“Angel, Spike is one of the team. We can’t leave him behind.” argued Fred,   
missing the point about the daylight entirely.

 

“Why not?” Angel asked. “Part of the team? When’s he ever . . . “ He stopped.   
“What are we doing? Arguing about food when there are more important issues   
at stake here? Can we just leave lunch arrangements to Harmony and get back   
to what I wanted to say to you all?”

 

He picked up the phone and dialled. “Harmony, arrange for lunch to be  
brought in at One . . . What? . . . No, we haven’t eaten the nibbles already  
. . . Yes I’m sure we’ll be ready to eat at One. . . . No! I don’t want you  
to come in and take everybody’s order. Just . . . Get something simple that   
everyone can eat, Harmony.”

 

Angel put the phone back on its cradle and took a deep breath. “Let’s  
get back to business and talk about Jenoff, our mysterious Special Client.  
Gunn, Do you remember why I cheated him? Why Cordy and I wouldn’t let him  
take your soul? You were ready to give your life for Fred and you trusted  
me to take a chance on a single cut of the deck. I wasn’t willing to lose  
either of you. Not just because we’d lose a great demon fighter, but because  
I’d lose two loyal friends, members of the family.”

 

“You were willing to kill _me_ yourself!” complained Spike. “And  
I’m more family than they are.”

 

“Not now!” Angel hissed. He turned to Fred, who sat gazing at Gunn, her  
eyes glistening with tears that threatened to spill over as she recalled  
how she’d almost lost him. “Fred," said Angel gently, "you could’ve gone  
back home with your parents, you felt safe with them; yet you chose to stay  
here, in L.A. with us.”

 

The room began to glow with rosy warmth that had nothing to do with the  
heating system and everything to do with the memories that Angel’s words  
had aroused.

 

“Huh, at least she got to choose,” muttered Spike, “I didn’t have a say  
in the matter. If I had I wouldn’t have bloody well chosen to come here  
in the first place.”

 

Angel scowled at him. “I’m go~ing ~ to have ~ to ki~ll you,” he intoned  
through clenched teeth.

 

Lorne’s head snapped up. It had only been a snatch, but it was a song,   
of sorts. He looked at Angel in alarm as an image of a bloodied Wesley flashed   
into his mind, followed swiftly by a distraught Angel searching for something.   
_Not something, someone. _Lorne closed his eyes to prevent Angel   
from spotting the fear he was sure to see if he kept them open.

 

But Angel hadn’t noticed; he was too busy trying to keep control of his  
temper. He took a deep breath and focused his mind on what he was trying  
to achieve. He turned his attention to Wesley. “Wes, you were the one who  
taught me I couldn’t work alone, that to be effective, I needed the team  
with me, backing me up.”

 

Wesley had noticed Lorne’s distress and was watching him closely. “Yes,  
I remember,” he said quietly. “And you took me in, when I was working alone,   
gave me a place to belong.”

 

“And that place wasn’t a building, wasn’t the fancy cars or the high tech   
equipment or access to ancient books. It was wherever we were.” Angel appealed   
to the others. “What brought us together was the same for each of you. Each   
of you was fighting demons of one sort or another, and each of you saw that   
we could do more together than we could alone. Something’s gone badly wrong.   
We’re not pulling together any more, we’re pulling apart.”

 

“So, what are we going to do about it? What’s your plan?” asked Wesley,  
turning his gaze away from Lorne and concentrating it on Angel.

 

“I haven’t got a plan. I need each of you to contribute to solving it.   
It’s the family’s plan - or will be when we’ve agreed one.”

 

“Um - when you say family, just where do I fit in all this?” Spike’s voice   
chilled the air. The rosy glow disappeared.

 

And with it, Angel’s patience finally disintegrated. “I knew it couldn’t  
last,” he snarled. “I was wrong Spike, you haven’t changed. You’re just  
the same reckless, selfish, manipulating jerk you always were. The soul’s  
not done anything about any of that.” He strode across the room and jabbed  
a finger at Spike’s face. “If it hadn’t been for you, none of this would  
be happening. What makes you think you’re fit to be in this family? When  
did you do anything for any of us since you arrived in L.A.? Let’s see.”  
Angel held up a hand in front of Spike’s face and began to count off the  
digits, starting with his thumb. “One, tried to kill me. Failed. Two . .  
.” Angel never got to finish his list.

 

Spike lunged at him and grabbed him by the throat. “Failed?” he roared,  
“Could’ve staked you - twice. Should have bloody well done it. That little  
talk over my hospital bed? Piffle! You _still _don’t see me, do you?”

 

 

Angel shook off Spike’s hands, effortlessly, and pushed him away. “I see   
you. You haven’t changed.“

 

“To be fair . . .”

 

“There was the time he . . .”

 

Gunn and Fred jumped to Spike’s defence, but Angel was deaf to them. He  
and Spike were in each other’s face again, the atmosphere charged with  
emotion.

 

Spike clenched his fists and prepared to launch himself at Angel for a   
second time, then thought better of it._ No! ‘S just what the sod expects.   
Proves he’s right. _He took a step back, dropped his eyes from Angel’s   
and appealed to Gunn. “You tell him, Gunn. Tell him about the other night   
with Connor.”

 

Lorne moaned and grasped his head. Angel froze.

 

Gunn looked startled. “What’re you talking about man? Who’s Connor?” He  
swung his head looking round the room as if seeing it for the first time.

 

Angel heard Gunn’s voice rush away from him to the end of a long, dark   
tunnel, down which he was being pulled rapidly, backwards. The light in the  
office faded and swirled, dancing through the spectrum, from red to violet.

 

“Charles!” Don’t joke at a time like this.” Fred gestured with her eyes  
at Angel. “The baby’s been gone less than . . .” She stopped, looked blankly   
round the office, then back at Angel for a moment. “What was I saying? Oh,   
yes. Angel, you’re forgetting the time Spike saved me from Pavayne.”

 

“Yeah – right! You tell ‘im, pet.” Spike, still seething from Angel’s  
verbal attack, nodded his thanks to Fred.

 

Angel glanced from Fred to Gunn, to Spike, and finally Wesley.

 

“Wes. What’s going on?” he croaked, as the walls undulated and the windows   
darkened.

 

“What’s going on?” Spike began pacing round the room. “I’ll tell you what’s  
going on, you git. You’re treating me like . . .” he struggled for the  
right words. “just like . . .” No. He wasn’t going to mention Buffy’s name.  
That would be like pulling the pin and hanging on to the hand grenade. “Changing   
your mind when it suits you, ‘bout where I fit in and when. You’re all ‘Oh   
Spike, ol’ buddy, have an office, we’ll find you something useful to do,   
you’re one of the family.’ Next minute you’re back to treating me like an   
outsider again. That’s what.” Spike’s pacing adopted a rhythm to match his   
tirade; fast, furious. “Nothing I do is good enough for you is it?” he stormed.   
“Well, I’m done playing ‘Mr Nice Corporate Guy’. I knew I shouldn’t have got  
involved with this corner of hell you’re running. Get someone else to baby-sit  
the kid for you. Anyone should do, right? It’s obviously not important if  
Gunn can’t remember who he is for more than 24 hours. Special project my  
arse!”

 

All attention focused on Spike. He seemed to be the only one untouched   
by the swirling light and shifting dimensions of the room. They each felt   
something unravelling but couldn’t quite grasp hold of what it was.

 

Lorne tried to make sense of the vision he’d had but was struggling with   
the sickening giddiness caused by the floor rolling his chair like the deck   
of a boat on a stormy sea.

 

Gunn searched his memory frantically. _Who is this blond guy and what  
was he talking about? What special project? And why am I wearing a wearing  
a suit? _

 

Fred watched the ceiling fly away. _Where am I? - What am I doing in   
this place? I don’t belong here. _She grasped Gunn’s arm and curled up   
against him.

 

The mist that had formed around Wesley cleared. He remembered! _A baby   
\- Angel’s son. Connor! Dear God, what have I done? _The blood turned   
to ice in his veins. Digging deep into his reserves of self-control, he was   
the first to break the silence that followed Spike’s outburst. “I’m not quite   
sure just what has just transpired. But whatever it was, it seems to have   
been triggered by something Spike said.“

 

Angel tensed, waiting for a reaction._ How much do they remember?_

 

“Oh. So it’s my fault again?” asked Spike petulantly. He’d stopped pacing  
and come to rest against the wall behind Angel’s desk. He checked his pockets,   
found a packet of cigarettes and began the process of lighting up in defiant   
breach of Angel’s ‘no smoking’ rule. “Should’ve known.”

 

“Do try to stop being so tiresomely childish. Despite what your narcissistic   
tendencies lead you to believe, this is not all about you.” Wesley shot a  
look at Angel, trying to read his expression. It was no use. Angel had closed  
down, his eyes firmly fixed on the floor, his hands resting perfectly still  
on the arms of his chair. He’d perfected the art of hiding his emotions so  
well. “However, as you seem to have something to tell Angel, why don’t you  
start by informing us all what it is that you’ve done that’s worthy of his  
respect?”

 

Wesley appealed directly to Spike’s deep-rooted, and deeply buried need  
for Angel’s approval. And with it, Wesley bought Angel some recovery time.  
As they listened to Spike’s story, the room gradually reverted to its normal   
proportions. The light regained its natural colour. Fred lost her startled   
‘rabbit in a car’s headlights’ look and relaxed her grip on Gunn’s arm.

 

“So, to cut a long story short, thumped a couple of demons, grabbed the  
boy, stole a bike and delivered him safely back to his dorm unharmed, as  
promised.” Spike finished the story and turned his attention back to Angel,  
awaiting his reaction to his tale. He had relived the emotions he’d felt  
during the night out with Connor and frowned when he saw Angel’s impenetrable  
stare.

 

“You see!” squealed Fred. “We knew you could do it. Wesley was worried   
when Charles told him what he had in mind but we knew you could do it Spike.”   
Fred left Gunn’s side and gave Spike a hug, followed by a quick peck on the  
cheek, blushing furiously as she did so.

 

Slightly taken aback by Fred’s sudden show of affection, Spike covered   
his confusion with a gushing, “Yeah – And had a bloody good time doing it   
an’ all. Haven’t had so much fun while stone cold sober in an age.”

 

“Well that’s good to hear. Well done. Just goes to show what can be done   
with a little team work.” It was Wesley, not Angel who responded. “Now. Let’s  
get back to business shall we? Angel, you were saying something about teamwork?”

 

Angel lifted his head and looked directly at Wesley. _He knows! He saw   
everything begin to roll back and then stop. Why wasn’t he affected like   
the others?_

 

“Thought he’d finished,” said Spike.

 

“I have, for the moment.” Angel spoke for the first time since Fred had  
mentioned his baby son.

 

“Oh, thank God for that! Don’t think I could take any more Pollyanna from  
you.” Spike was thoroughly confused. He felt frustrated at taking part  
in something he didn’t understand. What had just happened? The name, Connor,   
had done something to the others. They’d behaved as if they didn’t know where  
they were for a split second there. _Did it have something to do with  
the mind-wipe? _All he knew for certain was that he’d come close to fighting  
with Angel again and that would get him nowhere, fast.

 

Angel, though, had admitted to himself that maybe, just maybe, he’d judged   
Spike a little too harshly. He might doubt Spike’s motive but he’d saved   
his son. Blood had called to blood. Not that I’m ready to tell him that to  
his face. Not yet. First of all, and most importantly, he needed time alone  
with Wesley, to find out just how much he remembered and what he intended   
to do. What Spike had just revealed had changed things irrevocably. There   
was no doubt in Angel’s mind that the Connor who Spike had saved from harm   
was his son. Somehow Connor had been manoeuvred into place at Wolfram and   
Hart; the one place where his presence would cause Angel the most pain, one  
way or another.

   
  
---|---


	7. Families - they really screw you up

  
  
  


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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

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**Chapter   
7\. **Families - they really screw you up.****

 

Spike lounged in his office chair, idly flicking through the  
TV channels. Angel had ended the meeting abruptly, shooing everyone except  
Wesley out of his office, telling them they’d meet up again in the evening  
for supper in his penthouse suite. Spike didn’t know why he hadn’t just  
left the building there and then. “Nowhere to go, mate,” he muttered to  
himself. “At least, not on the bike. Middle of the day’s not a good time   
to pick to ride off in a huff.” That wasn’t the real reason why he hadn’t   
left, though, Spike admitted to himself. The _real_ reason had more   
to do with what had happened in Angel’s office and less to do with the timing   
of his departure from Wolfram and Hart. Something wasn’t right, and Spike   
was busy trying to work out just what it was. Something had happened during   
that meeting, something the others had experienced and he hadn’t.

 

“Nothing worth watching on the sodding telly any more,” he grumbled. He’d   
just skipped past NBC three times while Sheridan was being electrocuted in  
the psychiatric ward on ‘Passions’. Spike’s attention wasn’t on the screen,   
he was thinking about Angel’s and Wesley’s faces as he’d told the story of  
his night out with Connor. What was it Wesley had said? Something about weird  
happenings when he’d first mentioned Connor’s name. What sort of happenings?   
He hadn’t noticed any, except, perhaps, Angel ending the meeting when he   
did. Spike wondered why Angel had thrown them out before he’d completed his   
pep talk about working together as a team. _Not that it would’ve worked,   
anyway, talking to them_, reflected Spike as he surfed on past the news   
item showing Johnny Rotten’s obscenity-laden outburst on ‘I’m A Celebrity   
… Get Me Out Of Here!’ _And what was so important about what he wanted to  
say to the Head Boy that the others couldn’t share? Perhaps it had something   
to do with the mind-wipe? The name – Connor – could the boy be Angel’s son?   
_

 

The phone on his desk rang, making him jump. “Who. . .?” he yelped wondering   
who one earth could be phoning him. No one knew he was there, did they? Spike  
flicked off the TV and swung his legs down from the desk. He lifted the  
phone from the hook, eyeing it suspiciously, as if it might bite him. It  
was Angel. “Yeah,” Spike drawled. “What do you mean _am I still here_?”   
he asked peevishly. “Oh, yeah, there was that whole ‘_corner of hell’ thing._  
What? No I’m not packing! What’ve I got to pack? Wes said . . . what?” Spike  
looked at the phone again. “Oh balls to this.” He slammed the receiver down  
and leapt to his feet. _The Big Poof’s really lost the plot. Phoning me  
\- on the phone!_

 

Spike swept down the corridor and into Angel’s office, waving aside Harmony’s  
attempts to gain his attention. “What’s so important it can’t wait, but  
not so important you can’t get off your pampered arse to walk down the corridor?”   
Spike demanded, as he slammed the door shut behind him. “And do _not _start   
with how this whole thing is my fault.”

 

Angel rose from his chair and crossed the room to face him. “It’s not,”  
he said simply. “And I’m not going to try and convince you to stay. But  
Wes’s convinced me that you need to be in on this.” Angel paused and looked  
directly into Spike’s eyes. “And . . .I . . . just wanted to thank you,”  
he said quietly, “for the other night – with Connor.” He dropped his gaze  
and waited for Spike’s response.

 

Spike lifted his eyebrows. “Well, bugger me. There’s a turn up for the   
books. Didn’t see _that coming_,” he said sheepishly, looking down and  
studying his boots. “Percy been working you over long, has he?” Spike flashed  
a quizzical grin at Wesley. One glance at his face told Spike all he needed  
to know; the man was totally drained. “More like the other way ‘round,” he  
corrected himself. “Right! Both of you look as if you could do with a stiff  
one.” He strode across the office to the drinks’ cupboard and pulled out  
the bottle of Powers and three glasses. He filled the glasses and handed  
one to each of them.

 

Angel and Wesley continued to eye one another nervously.

 

“Look,” said Spike, “I don’t know what’s gone on between you two, but  
you didn’t call me just so’s Angel could do the grateful grovelling. Not  
that I mind the grovelling,” he smirked. “Could suffer a lot more of that!”

 

“Don’t push it, Spike.” Angel said slowly, fixing his eyes on the contents   
of his whiskey tumbler.

 

“Calm down, Gramps. Come on. Drink up, the world’ll look a lot better  
through the bottom of an empty glass. Always works for me. Well – not always,  
but I enjoy testing out the theory.”

 

\---------------------------

 

The whiskey bottle was empty. Spike leaned back in his chair and contemplated   
the glass in his hands. “Figured he must be your son,” he said. “Didn’t that  
night o’ course, couldn’t put my finger on why his blood smelt so familiar.   
And the way he moves . . . “ Spike shot an embarrassed glance at Angel, “He  
has something of your style, Angel - you should see him fight.”

 

“I have,” murmured Angel, staring into the middle distance.

 

Wesley cleared his throat and spoke for the first time since Spike had   
entered the office. “Angel and I are agreed that Connor needs to be watched   
and protected.” He stopped and looked at Angel. “We’re not in agreement about  
what to do about Gunn or Fred or Lorne,” he added wearily.

 

“Wes thinks they should all be told,” said Angel. “I’m not so sure.” He  
turned to Spike and frowned. “What do you think?”

 

“Since when did you care what I think?” asked Spike. “Oh – does it come  
with the whole grovelling thing – part of the package?”

 

Angel growled a warning.

 

“Spike, please,” appealed Wesley. “We really haven’t the time or energy  
to massage your bruised ego. There’s an innocent life at stake.”

 

Spike looked at Wesley’s anguished face._ Poor bloke. Looks like he’s  
just re-lived the whole thing all over again._ Realisation dawned on  
Spike. _That’s just what happened earlier._ For some reason,  
Wesley had remembered everything and the others had just had snatches of  
memory that they’d lost again. “An innocent’s life,” he whispered.

 

Angel nodded, swirled the remaining whiskey round his glass and drained  
it in one gulp.

 

_He heard me! _Spike felt a wave of sympathy for both vampire   
and human wash over him. _Get a grip, Spike. Don’t go all gooey and sentimental   
just because you shared a moment in a hospital room. He’s still batting for  
the wrong team here. This isn’t just **any **innocent; it’s his son._  
“Right,” Spike said aloud. “What do I think? Well, Peaches knows what I  
think. He was in the wrong, the moment he agreed to the whole mind-wipe gig.”  
Spike held his hand up to stop Angel interrupting. “That’s something that  
can’t be undone.” Spike turned his attention to Wesley and watched him closely   
as he asked “But how can _you_ be sure that telling the others won’t   
bring about what you’re trying to avoid - Connor’s death - eh?”

 

Wesley considered for a moment, twirling his empty glass in his fingers,  
watching the light catch in the finely cut Waterford crystal. “I can’t,”  
he admitted. “But I don’t see how we can continue to work without their co-operation.”

 

“Seems to me there’s two separate problems here,” replied Spike, “and  
you need to decide which is more important - the boy in need of protection  
\- or this whole deal with . . .” He threw his arms wide indicating the room   
in which they sat, and sighed. “I’m not about to buy into any of _that_,   
though I suppose the office might be counted against any pleas of innocence   
I might have; and I can’t see what _you_ got out of it at all.” Spike   
gave Wesley a questioning tilt of the head.

 

“A new pen, it seems,” murmured Wesley.

 

Spike blinked, shook his head and turned to Angel. “Boy are _you_   
gonna get roasted extra bien cuit for this.”

 

Wesley looked from one vampire to another and wondered what he’d missed  
but found no clue in either of their expressions, Spike’s full of mockery,  
Angel’s of resignation. “Let’s get back to what you were saying about priorities   
and what we’re going to do about keeping Connor safe shall we?” he suggested   
seriously. “We need someone to keep an eye on him at all times.”

 

“Well that rules out Spike and me for the daylight cover, despite the  
cars. Can’t protect him from behind glass,” said Angel. He rose from his  
seat and walked over to the window. The lights were going on in the office  
blocks across the way. Angel looked down into the street below, guilt clutching   
at his heart, squeezing his throat. _The streets I vowed to clear,_ he  
thought. _The streets I barely notice any more._ “We can do the  
night time shift, but I don’t want the Wolfram and Hart people involved in  
this. You’re going to have to take on the daytime one, Wes.” He turned to  
face Wesley. “Any ideas?”

 

“I believe I have,” replied Wesley. “I’m going to extend Spike’s idea  
of why _William Sanguinaire_ is here at Wolfram and Hart, and give  
_Professor Wyndham-Pryce_ a reason to be on campus at USC. I  
just need to check Connor’s subject choices and have the relevant paperwork  
prepared that instates me as a visiting guest speaker. Then all I have to  
do is pick up the phone and call in a favour. I can be in place by tomorrow  
afternoon.”

 

Spike watched Angel as he looked anxiously out of the window at the darkening   
sky._ We – he said we! Working together again. _“It’ll be dark soon,”   
he observed. “Why don’t we leave the Paper Boy here to do what ever it is   
he does in the privacy of his own office and go do a sweep for any evil that  
might be lurking on campus?”

 

Angel’s eyes lit up. He turned and beamed at Spike. “Fighting evil, out  
on the streets again? We’ll take _my_ car.”

 

\---------------------------------

 

“I got the car back safe and sound, didn’t I? S’not like I left it there.  
Quit complaining,” Spike snapped, as Angel turned off the freeway and into   
the University Park Campus.

 

“Stop trying to change the subject, Spike. All I wanted to know was why  
you’d forgotten to tell me you’d kept the bike.

 

“’Cos mine’s buried at the bottom of a bloody great hole, along with everything   
else in Sunnydale,” Spike explained, through gritted teeth. He’d sulked throughout  
the whole journey. Angel had spotted the Harley in the garage and had questioned  
him relentlessly about it, refusing to let him drive and switching the radio  
to K-Mozart. _Bloody control freak._

 

“It wasn’t yours to begin with,” argued Angel. “You stole that one as  
well.”

 

“From a rampaging demon!” yelled Spike exasperatedly. “How many times  
do I have to tell you?”

 

“That’s not the point,” Angel yelled back. “Besides, this one wasn’t from   
a demon.”

 

“Could be!” pouted Spike. _His whole ‘Holier than Thou’ attitude is  
really starting to piss me off. What’s one bike compared with twelve cars?_   
“How d’you know it wasn’t?”

 

“Just get it back to its owner, Spike.” Angel pulled the car into the  
parking lot outside the student dormitory building. “Look!” he said, gripping  
Spike’s arm and pointing behind him. “There he is!” He’d spotted Connor  
on the steps leading to the entrance to the building chatting to two other  
college boys. Both vampires concentrated their hearing on the conversation  
taking place, automatically screening out all intervening and background  
noise.

 

“Well, I’m gonna hit the books,” they heard Connor tell the others. “First   
assignment’s due in a few days.”

 

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” the dark-haired companion on his left  
inquired. “We could go to 14 Below. Tracy’ll be there. I heard her telling  
Cass she was going to check out the new band playing tonight.”

 

“Tempting, Mikey, tempting. What’re you trying to do - make sure my grades   
are lower than yours this semester?” Connor asked. “I just know you’ve finished   
this assignment already. There is no way you’d hustle for a night out so   
close to the deadline if you hadn’t.”

 

“Yeah – like I need a scam to get higher grades than you. Who beat you   
all through junior high?” Mike gave Connor a playful shove.

 

“That was junior high. You haven’t come anywhere near me since,” said  
Connor, returning the push with a light punch to Mike’s shoulder.

 

“When you guys are done, take a look at this.” The third member of the   
group had gone ahead of them into the building and re-appeared carrying a  
sheet of paper. He handed Connor the notice he’d taken down from the bulletin   
board in the hall. “Looks like the warning Professor Forsyth gave us at the  
end of class was serious.”

 

Connor began reading. “_The number of attacks on students has increased   
over the past two days. While no attack has resulted in any fatalities, the  
victims have all been seriously injured. These recent attacks have taken   
place off-campus, and the campus security advises all First Year students   
to stay in their dorms in the evenings until further notice._”

 

“Well, there’s my excuse all neatly wrapped up,” said Connor. “’Motivation   
and Emotion’, here I come.”

 

“You find anything interesting on decoding emotions in non-verbal expressions?”   
asked Mike, as the three boys sprinted up the stairs and in through the door.

 

“So, looks like he’s having a night in with his chums,” said Spike. “All’s   
well. What’re we gonna do? Quick sweep of the campus, then home to supper   
with the others?” Spike turned to look at Angel.

 

Angel’s eyes were fixed on the space Connor had just vacated._ He looks   
exactly the same as he did on the video. Happy, at ease with himself and   
with his friends_. “Sweep?” he asked, dreamily, opening the door and stepping   
out under the streetlight. “Yeah – let’s do that.”

 

“So, if you’re his dad, does this make him my uncle, then?” Spike wondered  
aloud as they walked towards the back of the building and into the woods.   
“I had an uncle once. Wasn’t a bit like Connor. In fact, now I come to think   
of it, he was a lot like you – uptight, pompous, arrogant bastard who thought   
he knew what was best for me.”

 

Spike walked on, still talking, while Angel fell behind to stop and give   
the front of the building one last look.

 

“Doesn’t feel right having an uncle who’s young enough to be my great,   
great, great great grandson,” Spike continued. _Never had the chance to   
be a father, let alone a great anything_, he thought wistfully. He pushed   
his hands into the pockets of his duster and pulled it closely around his   
body, hugging himself, to keep out both the chill of the night and the twinge   
of envy he’d felt observing Angel’s adoring gaze. “Is that enough greats   
do you think?” he asked, stopping to let Angel catch up with him. “Never   
was much good at the maths.”

 

Angel gave him a friendly slap on the side of the head. “Shut up, Spike!”

 

* * * * *

 

The supper had not been a success. Spike could feel the tension caused   
by the division among Angel’s friends. _Those in the know and the know-nots_,  
he mused. The conversation had been polite enough, but the bon-homie felt   
forced. Gunn was still seething from Angel’s attack on his work practices.   
Fred was late - again, and defended her time with Knox with greater vehemence   
than she’d done earlier in the day. Lorne was absent altogether. He’d left   
a message with Harmony saying he had a migraine and was lying down in a darkened  
room with his medication. According to Harmony, he’d ordered a large bottle  
of something blue, and 70% proof, to be sent to his apartment. Lorne had  
told her to bill the Entertainment Department for it, on the grounds that  
it was a ‘necessary tool of the trade’.

 

Everyone picked at their food. Wesley chased noodles from one side of  
the plate to the other, barely putting a single forkful near his mouth.  
Fred sipped a few mouthfuls of chicken soup and pulled a bread roll to pieces   
before leaving her spoon in the soup bowl. She spent the remainder of the   
hour they were together folding and re-folding her napkin, making various   
origami shapes and avoiding everyone’s eyes. Gunn didn’t even pick up his   
knife and fork, devoting himself to working steadily through the second bottle   
of claret Angel had provided instead. Angel hadn’t ordered anything to eat,   
and he drank the wine with little enthusiasm, wondering how he was going to  
get through the evening without letting something slip.

 

Spike had surprised himself by being unable to finish the portion of spicy   
buffalo wings Harmony had ordered for him. _Takes a lot to put me off my  
nosh._ “Well this has been a barrel o’ laughs,” he quipped as he stood   
up to stretch his legs. “We really must do this again sometime soon. How  
about next century?”

 

“Spike!” Angel glared a warning. “You guys look tired,” he said, turning   
to Gunn and Fred. “Why don’t you have an early night? I’ll check in on you   
both tomorrow.” Angel walked them to the elevator. “Is that OK?” he asked.

 

Fred nodded slightly. “I am tired,” she said. “Perhaps a good night’s  
sleep is what I need.” She put her napkin down and looked at Gunn. “Would  
you like me to drive you home, Charles? You’ve had rather a lot to drink.”

 

“Sure, little bit of TLC won’t do me any harm,” replied Gunn, returning  
Wesley’s questioning gaze defiantly. “Why not?” He drained his glass and  
rose from his seat, pushing back his chair carelessly causing it to topple  
over.

 

Spike was standing just behind him and caught the chair before it hit  
the floor. “Thought you could hold your grog better than that, Chuck,” he  
said, putting a steadying hand on Gunn’s arm.

 

“I just need to pick up a few things from the office, then I’m outta here,”   
Gunn continued, shrugging off Spike’s arm. He took out an envelope from his  
jacket pocket, turned and handed it to Spike. “If you’re still interested   
in the job, there’s a meeting you should attend tomorrow. It won’t take long.”

 

Gunn stepped into the elevator after Fred and turned to face Angel. “I   
know what you meant this morning. And I’m _not _talking about the Jenoff   
speech. I won’t forget what you said to me in a hurry! No amount of pep-talking   
me back to the beginning is gonna make up for that.” He pushed the button   
for the ground floor. “You just don’t get it, Angel. I don’t need a Daddy   
any more; I’m a big boy now.”

 

The door to the elevator closed, leaving Angel staring at the polished   
metal.

 

Spike turned the envelope over; it was addressed to “William Sanguinaire.  
“That went well, all things considered,” he said, eyeing it nervously.  
“Do you think they noticed anything, Angel? What with us not threatening  
to kill one another every five minutes an’ all?”

 

“I think you may have managed to distract them with your stories of how  
you had Angel tortured and helped Buffy kill him to avert the Apocalypse,”  
replied Wesley caustically.

 

“Huh, yeah,” Spike chuckled. “Did you see how Charlie Boy’s eyes lit up  
when I described ... "

 

“Gunn’s starting to seriously bother me,” interrupted Angel. “Did you  
notice his eyes change colour? It was almost as if he was turning into  
. . . “

 

“The Big Cat,” finished Wesley. “Yes, I saw that too. He may well be a   
threat to all of us, so the sooner we can solve the problem of Connor’s safety,  
the sooner we can turn to the larger problem. I’m beginning to suspect the  
two are not as separate as Spike suggested they might be.”

 

“We could just find out ‘bout that tomorrow,” said Spike, holding the  
envelope out for Wesley to inspect the name on it.

 

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Wesley asked? “It’s addressed to you.”

 

“Think I’ll let you do that. Tend to get bit iffy about envelopes addressed   
to me coming to this place.”

 

Wesley tore open the envelope and pulled out two small pieces of paper   
stapled together. “It’s a memo, from the legal department. Connor will be   
coming in to sign some financial papers concerning the scholarship tomorrow   
afternoon. That’s all it says.” Wesley gave Spike an enquiring glance. “Why   
would you be expected to attend?”

 

“Not a clue. But this whole set up is beginning to smell. Who else is  
going to be there?” Spike took the memo from Wesley’s hand and studied the  
second page. “No one I’ve ever heard of; just some bloke from the legal  
department and a Trustee. ”

 

Angel was worried by Wesley’s analysis of the problems they were facing.   
If Wesley was right, the thought that Gunn might pose a threat filled him   
with foreboding. Gunn was not the only one who was acting in ignorance; there  
was Fred and Lorne to consider. Was it just co-incidence that Lorne’s migraine  
came on during the morning meeting? Or that Fred’s usual compliance with  
his requests had turned to defiance?

 

“Wes,” he said finally, “we need information on this scholarship.” He  
turned to Spike. “Didn’t you say that Connor didn’t have to compete for  
this award? That it was just handed to him?”

 

Spike frowned and thought for a second. “What he _said_ was that  
he fulfilled the criteria.”

 

The three men looked at one another, each reaching the same conclusions  
about the next course of action.

 

Wesley was the first to speak. “I’ll chase up every piece of information   
I can find about this scholarship, and the sponsor.”

 

“And I’ll dig out everything that’s on file about Connor,” Angel added.

 

“And I’ll . . .” Spike stopped. He wasn’t good on the research. It bored   
him and he allowed himself to be distracted by things that took his fancy.  
“I’ll go and see if there’s any footy on the telly tomorrow night. Then  
if needs be, we can keep him here after the meeting without rousing anyone’s   
suspicions.”

 

“Was that a good idea you just had?” asked Angel. “Keep this up and I  
might . . .”

 

“Let me keep the bike?” Spike asked, grinning.

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, ” said Angel.

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
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	8. The Generation Gap

  
  
  


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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

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**Chapter   
8\. **The Generation Gap.****

 

Connor stood up and shook hands again with the slight,  
dark Englishman who had just outlined the summer vacation work-placement  
to him.

 

"Thank you very much, Mr Kane," he said.

 

"I wish you every success, young man," replied Kane. "I’m sure you deserve   
every experience the Company has to offer."

 

Spike had remained silent throughout the meeting, which had been brief   
and to the point. Connor had been offered the opportunity to observe various  
sections of the firm at work throughout the Summer Vacation. He would earn  
his maintenance allowance by working in the Archives Department each morning,  
leaving the afternoon free for observation and work shadowing. This sounded  
straightforward and above board to Spike. But what concerned him was the  
man who had been introduced to him as Eden Kane. The name rang a bell, and  
so did the face, but the two did not belong together, Spike was sure of that.  
He opened the door and nodded his goodbye to the man, studying his face  
one last time, in the hope that he’d recall where he’d seen him before.

 

"That’s neat, don’t you think?" asked Connor, as they walked down the  
corridor towards Spike’s office. "I get to stay in my room and earn some  
study credits."

 

"A little too neat if you ask me," muttered Spike. He hoped Wesley had   
unearthed some information on the origins of this scholarship before anything   
else happened to threaten the boy. It had been a week since he’d killed Jennof’s   
son and, although there had been no more demon attacks after the night of   
the football game, the college authorities were still on high alert. Angel   
and Wesley were agreed on one thing, this meant that Connor had been identified   
by Jenoff’s henchmen as Angel’s progeny. However, neither of them was sure   
how the Blood Clause was linked to Connor’s scholarship.

 

"Professor Pryce?" Connor caught sight of Wesley coming out of his office.   
"I didn’t expect to see you here. It’s Connor," he elaborated, misinterpreting   
Wesley’s look of panic as one of incomprehension. "I was at your lunchtime  
lecture."

 

Wesley fiddled with the papers he was carrying and glanced at Spike, who   
shrugged. He couldn’t be expected to anticipate Wesley’s movements in the   
building.

 

"I’m here on business," replied Wesley. "What brings you here?"

 

"The same."

 

"I’m just taking Connor to watch a spot of footy," interrupted Spike.  
"Want to join us, Wes?"

 

Connor frowned. "You two know each other?"

 

Spike mentally kicked himself and grimaced, looking to Wesley for help.

 

"We’re – um – working on a project together," said Wesley. "It’s – um  
-"

 

"About the nature of gang culture and violence on the terraces," Spike   
finished for him. "That’s why this match is so interesting. See, it’s what   
we call a local Derby – Man United against City. A bit like your Yankies   
and Confederates, or the Wars of the Roses or . . ." he stopped, noticing   
Welsey’s raised eyebrow.

 

"It’s a little more local than that, surely?" Wesley’s voice was acerbic.   
What on earth was Spike thinking?

 

"Well," said Spike, leading the way past Harmony’s desk, "that’s one of  
the things we’ll have to thrash out, isn’t it?"

 

Spike’s progress was halted by Harmony calling to him. "Spike!"

 

He cringed. _Silly Bint_. Did she have to use that name? "Not now,  
Harm!"

 

"Yes, now, Buster. You’ve been avoiding me for days."

 

"I’m busy," he hissed.

 

The phone on Harmony’s desk began ringing, but she ignored it. "Too busy   
to check your e-mail? You should, you know, every day. You never know what  
you’ll miss if you don’t. There’s a message about someone you really need   
to go and see."

 

"The phone, Harm," Spike insisted, marching on. His heart lurched. Who   
would he really want to see? Buffy? He stopped in front of his office door   
and closed his eyes, seeing once again Buffy’s tear-stained face as he told   
her to leave him at the Hellmouth. Wesley had assured him that Giles would   
say nothing, that Spike’s wish to contact Buffy in his own good time, would   
be honoured. He swallowed and clenched his jaw. He’d check his mail later,   
much later.

 

"Make yourself at home," he said to Connor, waving a hand in the direction   
of the sofas.

 

Connor looked from Spike, to Wesley, and back again. The uneasy feeling  
he’d experienced at meeting Wesley in the corridor had increased when he  
realised that ‘Will’ and ‘Professor Pryce’ knew one another. Co-incidence?  
Perhaps, but Connor was more than a little surprised when Harmony had called  
Will ‘Spike’, and intensely curious as to why these two very different Englishmen   
were working together on such an implausible sounding project. Violence on  
the terraces? It was such a European phenomenon. Why come to the US to study  
it?

 

The academic project was not the only thing concerning Connor. He was  
unable to rationalise why it was that he felt so at ease with Will/Spike  
and so uneasy about Professor Pryce. Within an hour of meeting Will, he’d  
fallen into the kind of easy banter he enjoyed with his family and friends,  
despite the fact that he found things about him so contradictory. A college  
professor who fought the way Will did was not something Connor had come across  
before. An Oxford professor whose taste in music and hairstyle seemed to  
be stuck somewhere in the middle of the punk era was something else Connor  
couldn’t quite accept. Professor Pryce fitted his idea of what an Oxford  
professor might look like, more closely than Will did.

 

Connor shook his head. It made no sense; he trusted Will, whereas the  
other man sent a shiver of fear down his spine.

 

Spike noticed the slight head shake. "You changed your mind? Suddenly  
remembered a previous engagement?" He’d sensed the boy’s fear and tilted  
his head at Connor as a challenge.

 

Connor returned Spike’s gaze and accepted the dare. He’d stay and find   
out just what was going on. After all, this was a respectable law firm, one  
which had provided him with a generous scholarship and now the opportunity   
of an internship. It was unlikely that he could come to any harm within these  
walls.

 

"No," he replied, "not changed my mind. Just wondering how you two came  
to be working together."

 

"Oh, that’s easy," replied Spike motioning the TV, which was tuned to  
Dishnetwork’s English Premier League. "Mutual love of the game. That right,  
Wes?"

 

Wesley, too, had been unnerved by Connor’s reaction to meeting him outside   
his office door. He’d inwardly cursed himself for his ill-conceived plan   
of adopting the Professor Pryce persona. His only excuse was that he’d been   
in a state of total shock at regaining his memory of all the events of the   
previous year. A major feature of that shock was his deep guilt at the part   
he himself had played in Angel’s loss of Connor. In fact, he reasoned it was  
guilt that he enabled him to regain his memory in the first place, when he’d  
watched the video Angel had received; not guilt about Connor, but about Lilah,  
about his failure, in the end, to save her.

 

_And now my stupidity has roused Connor’s distrust_, he thought.   
There had been no need for Wesley to appear on campus as visiting Professor   
Pryce. Campus security was tight, and, thanks to Gunn, they had known of   
Connor’s appointment with the scholarship Trustee.

 

_Still, what’s done is done, and can’t be undone_. Wesley wondered   
just how many times he’d hear that phrase before they solved their problems.

 

* * * * *

 

Angel could hear the reaction to the match before he turned the corner   
of the corridor leading to Spike’s office. And he could smell something,   
too. It was a little like bread being toasted but there was something different   
that he couldn’t identify.

 

"It should have been more," he heard Spike say. "Four – two is nothing   
on the home pitch. City haven’t beaten us at Old Trafford for 30 years."

 

"Yes, but they were one man short. If Neville hadn’t been sent off . .   
." Angel heard his son leap to his team’s defence.

 

"Bloody stupid bugger." Spike snorted his disgust. "It took all of Howard’s  
skill as a goalie to stop City running away with the match. That save of   
Barton’s point-blank range shot was nothing short of miraculous."

 

"Huh! Arason did the same with Giggs’s shot in second half," argued Connor.  
"I still say United is nothing without Beckham. Fergie should never have   
let him go to Spain."

 

Angel pushed open the door just wide enough for him to observe what was  
going on without being seen. Wesley, with his back towards him, was busy  
making tea and toasting something hidden from view behind the teapot. Spike  
and Connor sat side by side on the large leather sofa, examining a magazine.   
Strewn on the table in front of them were several photographs and old newspapers.

 

 

"They’re nowhere near the team they were _before_ Beckham," scoffed   
Spike. "This team’s a bunch of fairies compared with the 1968 squad. Look,"   
he pointed at one of the photos, "that’s the team that first brought the   
European Cup to England. "_There_," he turned to another photo," is the  
holy trinity, Charlton, Law, and the Irish Boy Wonder, Georgie Best. That  
boy could move – pure poetry in motion to watch." Spike looked up from the  
photo and caught Connor’s quizzical expression. "What? Haven’t you seen the  
old footage? There was a special on a few years back. Best’s 50th birthday.   
Showed all the classic games." Spike sighed. "Shame how he’s gone to the dogs."

 

Angel watched as the two heads bent together, pouring over the magazines,   
the blonde silhouetted against the dark, each stirring very different emotions.   
He heard Connor say something about Best and poke Spike in the ribs.

 

Angel felt a sharp pang of jealousy as Spike grabbed Connor playfully  
in a headlock and cried, "take that back! No way is Beckham better than  
Best. The Big Fairy’s whipped by that Missus of his."

 

Connor laughed gleefully and the two of them fell to the floor, rolling  
in a mock-fight, scattering photos and newspapers as they fell.

 

"Children, children," chided Wesley. "Have a care for those, they’re historical   
documents. If I’d known they were falling into the hands of two hooligans,   
I’d never have brought them out of my archive."

 

Wesley carried a tray over to the table and set it down. Spike and Connor   
ceased their wrestling match and picked themselves up off the floor, gathering   
the fallen papers as they did so.

 

"Sorry, Profess . . . Wesley," said Connor. "But he is," he shot at Spike.   
"Fitter, stronger, more stamina . . ."

 

"It might interest you to know," interrupted Wesley, "that the professional  
ballet dancer is fitter than the average Premiership footballer."

 

"I heard that," said Spike. "Don’t believe it though." He flung himself  
back on the sofa and helped himself to a couple of crumpets from the tray.  
As he bit into one of them, the butter immediately ran down his chin. "Where’d   
you get these? Haven’t had one in years. Don’t you just love it when the   
butter does that?" He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and continued   
eating.

 

Angel marvelled at Spike’s ability to enjoy life. He envied him this seemingly   
effortless capacity for finding pleasure in the small, very human, everyday   
actions of eating, drinking and enjoying the company of others; the other,   
in this case being Angel’s own son. _When did they get to be such great   
pals_? Angel wondered. He wanted to put a stop to any feelings of friendship  
Connor might be developing for Spike. His own relationship with Connor,  
even at its best, had never been like this, except in his dreams. What was  
Spike up to?

 

"Lorne found a bakery on the Internet that specialises in English products,"   
Angel heard Wesley tell Spike. "They supply us with crumpets and scones made  
to order."

 

"Lorne?" Connor asked.

 

"Our Entertainment Manager," explained Spike. "Throws great parties."  
Spike grinned and looked up, reaching to take the paper napkin Wesley was  
holding out to him. "The Jolly Green Giant was a big hit, eh Wes?"

 

"He’s on sick leave at the moment," Wesley added hastily, giving Spike   
a warning glance.

 

Angel hesitated in the doorway. He didn’t know if he could face Connor   
without betraying his feelings for him. But he needed to speak to Wesley   
about the communication he’d just received from Jennoff demanding the payment   
of the honour price. Angel took a deep breath and stepped into the room.   
In the same instant, Connor took his mobile out of his pocket and answered   
its insistent ringing.

 

"Connor. Oh, hi Mike. No I haven’t forgotten, I’ll be back in time. Thanks   
for reminding me. See ya." He snapped the phone shut. "That was my room mate,"  
he said, turning to Spike. "There’s a ten o’clock curfew. He was worried  
I’d miss it."

 

"There’s plenty of time. I’ll run you back if you like," Spike offered.

 

 

"You’ve time for tea before you go," added Wesley. "Won’t you try one  
of these?" He held out the plate of crumpets for Connor to select one, noticing  
Angel’s presence as he did so. "But first, let me introduce you to our CEO.  
Angel, this is Connor, Wolfram and Hart’s scholarship recipient."

 

"Pleased to meet you Mr. . . ." Connor rose from his seat and hesitated  
uncertain of the correct mode of address.

 

Angel grasped Connor’s outstretched hand and shook it firmly. "It’s Angel,  
just Angel." He gazed at Connor and resisted the urge to pull him into  
a close embrace.

 

Connor stiffened and released Angel’s hand. _Cold, just like Will’s_,   
he thought. But that wasn’t what made him loose his grasp. He’d felt a charge   
of energy _just like an electric shock_ as their hands had touched.

 

Angel turned on his heel without another word and left the office. Spike   
and Wesley exchanged knowing glances and continued the activities they’d  
started as Connor and Angel shook hands. Wesley poured three cups of tea  
and buttered more crumpets. Spike finished putting the photographs and papers  
back into the storage folders in which Wesley had delivered them to his  
office earlier that day.

 

They drank their tea in silence, each lost to his own thoughts, until  
Spike finally decided he couldn’t stand it any more. _Typical bloody Angel,   
he thought, spoiling everyone else’s fun ‘cos he never gets to have any_.  
With a sigh, he stood up and walked over to a cupboard beside the door,  
pulled out his duster and put it on. He reached onto the top shelf and took  
down a motorcycle helmet and handed it to Connor. "Time we were off, then,  
if we’re to get you back before curfew."

 

* * * *

 

"Is that the bike from the other night?" Connor asked, as he and Spike   
approached the Harley Spike had parked in Angel’s garage.

 

"No – just looks like it."

 

"It is!" Connor’s eyes lit up. "It’s got the scrape from the fire hydrant   
you hit."

 

"Uh – well – yeah, OK. Fair cop. It’s the same bike."

 

"So we’re riding a stolen bike out of one of the biggest law firms in  
L.A.," observed Connor. "Why do I feel this is something else I don’t want  
to know about?"

 

"’S not stolen, more . . ." Spike checked the traffic as he swung out  
onto the highway and searched for the right word, "Commandeered. That’s  
it."

 

"Is that legal?"

 

"Dunno," Spike admitted.

 

"You work for a law firm and you don’t know?"

 

"I told you, I’m not a lawyer. "Just visitin’."

 

Connor decided to voice his fears. "You’re weird, you know that? In fact,   
I’m beginning to think this whole set up is beyond weird; it’s surreal. You,  
Wesley, the scholarship. I mean just how many co-incidences can one person  
suffer in a day? And I have to tell you," he went on before Spike could  
stop him," that CEO of yours is creepy."

 

Spike pulled onto the sidewalk and stopped the bike. _Time to come clean_,  
he thought. "You’re right. There are too many co-incidences. Truth is.  
I’m not a professor, visitin’ or otherwise. I’ve been hired as a sort of  
bodyguard, to keep an eye on you."

 

Connor removed his helmet and studied Spike’s face, finding it difficult   
to understand what he’d just heard him say. "A bodyguard?" he asked incredulously.   
"Why would I need a bodyguard?"

 

"Because . . ." Spike scrabbled frantically for a plausible explanation  
that wouldn’t reveal the truth about Connor’s identity, "your father has  
enemies who want to harm you."

 

"My father has no enemies," Connor said evenly.

 

_Oh yes he has_, thought Spike, but before he could respond   
with something more convincing, he fell to his knees, his head reeling from   
a blow to the back of his skull. The demon attack took him completely by surprise  
this time. He’d failed to notice them appear from the shadows as soon as  
he’d brought the bike to a halt.

 

"Will!" yelled Connor, struggling to free himself from the grip of two   
demons who’d grabbed him as the third had struck Spike.

 

Spike staggered to his feet. He could feel the trickle of blood on the   
back of his neck from the wound caused by the head of the axe that was descending   
for a second blow. Spike blocked its descent with his right arm and grasped   
hold of the axe handle with his left hand, wrenching it from the demon’s   
grip. Using the demon’s own momentum, Spike rolled forward, pulling it onto   
its knees, thrusting the tip of the curved blade into its face as he did so.  
There was a sickening crack as metal met bone, followed by blood gushing from  
the hole in the demon’s head as Spike continued to drive the blade upwards,   
splitting the skull in two. The demon crumpled and fell, twitching for a   
moment before finally lying still in a puddle of its own blood. Spike picked   
himself up and looked over to where Connor had been standing beside the bike.

 

Connor had managed to free himself from the two demons who’d held him  
and was fighting furiously for his life. This wasn’t like the fight in the  
football stadium; these demons were armed with knives and seemed intent  
on killing rather than capture. Connor was already covered in wounds and  
was beginning to flag.

 

Spike closed the gap between him and Connor in a flying leap, knocking   
one demon down and slicing its head off with a single sweep of the axe. As  
Connor was brought to his knees by a stab to his side from the surviving   
demon’s knife, Spike hurled himself towards them. "No . . .. o!" he screamed,   
vamping out as he did so. The demon recognised he was no match for Spike.   
He side-stepped Spike’s charge and jumped onto the bike. Roaring away along   
the sidewalk, he called "Tell your boss he can’t avoid payment any longer,   
vampire."

 

Spike dropped to his knees, resuming his human features as he did so.  
He examined Connor who was slipping in and out of consciousness. Connor  
was losing a lot of blood from the wound in his side. The other wounds were  
more superficial but this one needed immediate attention. Spike lifted up  
Connor’s jacket and jumper and winced at the sight of the gash that was visible  
through the tear in his T-shirt.

 

"Connor, I’m going to have to lift you," he said gently. "It’s gonna hurt   
but I need to get you to some help."

 

Connor moaned and opened his eyes. "Will?"

 

"’S all right, you’re gonna be all right," Spike reassured him. "I’m gonna  
try to stop the bleeding but you have to help me." Spike tore a strip from   
the bottom of Connor’s shirt and folded it into a pad. "Now, hold this against   
your side," he said, pressing the pad into Connor’s hand and placing it against  
the wound. Talking to him and encouraging him to stay awake the whole time,  
he lifted Connor carefully in his arms and made his way slowly back to Wolfram  
and Hart,

 

* * * * *

 

Spike had felt sure that Angel was going to kill him this time. He’d taken  
Connor to Fred’s lab and, after satisfying himself that he was in no real   
danger, he’d left her administering first aid and feminine tenderness to   
the wounded boy.

 

Eventually, Spike tracked Angel down to his apartment where he’d apparently   
retired after yet another disagreement with Wesley. As he told the story   
of why he’d had to bring Connor back to the building, he had the distinct   
impression that Angel was less interested in Connor’s physical state and more  
in why Spike had disobeyed him once again over the bike. According to Angel,  
the latest attempt on Connor’s life was Spike’s fault for not taking one  
of the cars. It was more than that, it was Spike’s_ stupidity_ that had  
caused the threat in the first place. _One step forward, two steps back_,  
thought Spike.

 

"You told him?" Now Angel was into the topic of truth telling – _his_   
version.

 

"Not exactly, he doesn’t know you’re his dad. He thinks his real father  
is the one with the enemies." Spike called through the door Angel had slammed   
in his face when he’d retreated into his bedroom.

 

"_I’m_ his real father," stormed Angel opening the door and glaring   
at Spike, barely able to conceal his anger at being unable to protect Connor  
himself.

 

Spike desperately wanted to shake Angel out of the charade he insisted   
on continuing to play. He’d willingly handed Connor over to the care of another  
family, but was reluctant to release his need to control how that care was  
provided. The fingers of Spike’s hands twitched as he suppressed the urge  
to grab Angel by the throat. The frustration at not being able to make Angel  
see that it was time to start telling the truth to everyone was taking its  
toll on Spike’s patience: not that he had much of that to begin with where  
Angel’s modus operandi was concerned. Angel was the one for games of cat  
and mouse, always had been; certainly when Angelus was in the ascendant anyway.  
Spike was all for the full frontal attack, fists and fangs, and failing  
that, boots and head. He had no time for the waiting game, the psychological  
torment before the kill. As far as Spike was concerned, time had run out.  
Jenoff was calling in the debt and, having failed by the most direct route  
of capture and kill, was about to employ the legal beagles to do the job  
for him. Spike looked at Angel’s face and sighed. There was no point in  
trying to reason with him, he was looking for a scapegoat. Spike experienced  
the sinking feeling in his stomach that told him he was the fall guy.

 

"Where is he now? Is someone taking care of him?" Angel asked walking  
slowly over to the window.

 

Spike considered Angel’s concern for his son’s well being to be a step   
in the right direction at last. "I left him with Fred. She’s patching him   
up."

 

"She shouldn’t have to patch him up. He shouldn’t have been injured in   
the first place. I told you to lose that damn bike. If you’d done as you   
were told . . ." Angel turned away from Spike and looked out into the night   
sky.

 

_One step forward . . . _"I thought you were over blaming everything   
on me!" Spike could contain himself no longer; it was time to have it out   
with Angel, although it was one thing to ask Angel to be truthful about Connor’s  
real parents, quite another to expect the boy to accept his father’s true  
identity. Connor was a smart kid, he probably wouldn’t believe it, and would  
be sure to ask a lot of questions._ What a mess_, thought Spike wondering  
why he’d allowed himself to get caught up in the web of lies and deceit.  
He wondered how he was going to raise the fact that he’d vamped out during  
the fight and he couldn’t be sure that Connor hadn’t witnessed it.’.

 

Angel hadn’t heard what Spike had said. Angel didn’t want to hear anything  
Spike had to say. "I never should have trusted you to take care of him,"   
he berated him. "I should have listened to Wes. Kept him here, with me."

 

Spike’s patience finally snapped. "And just how would you have done that?"   
Spike grabbed Angel’s arm and swung him round, his eyes glinting dangerously.   
"He already thinks you’re a creepy old man. Trying to persuade him to stay   
the night? Screams pervert to me!"

 

Angel slumped against the window as Spike relaxed his grip on his arm.   
All his anger drained away, leaving him with an overwhelming sense of powerlessness.   
Why had Spike been sent to Wolfram and Hart? Was it to torment him? Angel   
tried to rid himself of the image of Spike and Connor enjoying one another’s   
company in a way he never had. His dreams of teaching his baby to walk, taking  
his little boy night fishing and teaching his teenage son to defend himself,  
had all been taken away from him, leaving just the nightmare, the reality  
of the killer Connor had become. Angel dropped his gaze from Spike’s eyes.  
He couldn’t face this other child, the one who had fought his own way back  
from the Darkness; the one who had chosen to fight to become a better man,  
not had his memory wiped and replaced by false ones.

 

Spike watched Angel struggle with his emotions. He reached out one hand  
to pat him on the shoulder, but drew back quickly as Angel raised his eyes  
and looked at him sadly. "Things are looking up. He’s safe now," said Spike.  
"We’re all together, three generations under one roof. What a team we’d  
make, eh? The Three – Musketeers, the Three . . ." Spike paused, he’d already  
run out of heroic threesomes. Somehow the Three Stooges didn’t match up  
to the image he was trying to create. "Anyway, you get the picture."

 

"Yeah," said Angel, wearily. "Trouble is. I don’t know what will happen  
when he finds out. And he will find out. The court hearing’s in two days."

 

The door of the elevator swished into action, revealing Charles Gunn carrying   
a large box file. "I’ve got something for you," he said to Angel, "by way   
of a peace offering."

 

The phone beside Angel’s bed began to ring. Angel hesitated just for a   
second before saying, "Answer that will you, Spike? I need to speak with   
Gunn."

 

Spike lifted the receiver and listened as Fred gushed her relief at finding   
him down the earpiece.

 

"I thought you’d gone back to your apartment," she said. "And I don’t  
have your number, so I wondered if Angel had it and then I didn’t know  
whether to call him because of all that unpleasantness the other night and  
. . . "

 

"Hey, slow down, slow down," said Spike, "you’ll burst something if you  
keep that pace up too long. I’m here, not going anywhere. Least, not yet,  
anyway. How’s Connor?"

 

"That’s what I wanted to tell you," replied Fred, lowering her voice to  
a whisper. "He’s going to be fine, but he needs to sleep and he says he  
can’t go back to his dorm because of some curfew." Fred sounded puzzled  
and anxious.

 

"I’ll be with you in a tick, pet," Spike soothed her. "We’ll sort something   
out for tonight." He replaced the receiver on its cradle and looked over   
to where Gunn and Angel sat, sifting through the content of the box file and  
talking quietly. It looked to Spike as if Gunn had recovered from whatever   
resentment he’d been feeling the night before and was genuinely exited by   
what he’d found.

 

"That was Fred," Spike called to Angel. "I’m going down to sort out a  
bed for Connor for the night."

 

Angel looked up from the paperwork he was perusing and studied Spike’s   
face for a moment. He desperately wanted to see his son, to check for himself   
that he was going to be fine. But he realised that what he wanted to do and  
what was reasonable for him as CEO to do, was incompatible. Creepy old man.  
He didn’t want Connor’s view of him to be based on that notion.

 

Angel sighed; he hated the idea that Spike was the only person in the  
building who Connor trusted. "Put him in your office for the night," he  
suggested. "And Spike," he added as Spike crossed the room to the elevator,  
"stay here yourself."

 

Spike nodded his assent and stepped into the elevator. As he descended   
to Angel’s office, he considered, again, why he’d decided to stay at Angel’s   
side, instead of working alone, or making his way to Europe, to Buffy. It   
all boiled down to belonging.

 

He’d belonged in Sunnydale, fighting alongside Buffy right to the end.   
Now, there was nothing left. No more Sunnydale, no more Buffy. She was still   
alive, and even living happily ever after in Rome with Dawn, according to   
Andrew at least. That was why he’d set her free from him, why he’d been happy  
to die as her Champion. What was he was going to do about letting Buffy  
know he was alive? He was no closer to working out the answer to that question.  
He’d asked Andrew to let him do it in his own time, in his own way, and  
the right time would come. Now though, there was Angel’s problems to consider  
and the complication of Connor.

 

As he walked into Fred’s lab and caught sight of Connor’s battered face  
and bandaged hands, Spike decided he belonged at Wolfram and Hart, for the  
time being. The decision to stay had nothing to do with his relationship  
with Buffy, being a Champion, or having a soul; it was about family, _his  
_family, Angel and Connor.

   
  
---|---


	9. Blood Lines

  
  
  


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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

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**Chapter  
9\. **Blood Lines.****

 

Winifred Burkle smiled fondly at the sight of the blond  
vampire struggling at the keyboard of his computer. Amused, she had to resist   
the temptation to take over and retrieve his emails for him, if only to stop  
the stream of abuse he was hurling at the monitor. She glanced over at Connor  
curled up on the sofa bed opposite the window. _Still asleep. One less  
thing to worry about for the moment then._

 

"Stupid bloody thing!" Spike, flicked the mouse across the desk in disgust.   
"Why is 'Spike' an incorrect username? My name's Spike and I'm using this  
gismo." He turned to Fred for support, a frown of frustration creasing his  
forehead, which was still streaked with blood from the earlier battle. "You're  
the expert, help me out here."

 

"Well," Fred chose her words carefully, knowing how battered Spike was  
feeling from his latest encounter with Angel. "You're right. Computers are  
stupid. This one can't think and has the intelligence of an earthworm. Did  
Harmony tell you _anything_ about your logon details?"

 

"No, she didn't. Just gave a vague threat about me needing to read my emails."  
Spike paused, frowning again. "But Wes mentioned something about computer  
controls when he gave me the tour. Said he'd write things down..." Spike  
rummaged through a pile of post-it notes, muttering "DVD, telly, Teasmade  
– right – computer. Okay, . Username WtB, password Blondiebear."

 

Spike went back to his task and Fred marvelled, not for the first time,   
at his ability to switch persona in the blink of an eye. He'd appeared in   
the medical wing after her phone call to Angel's penthouse, seething with   
resentment and barely concealed anger. Although, Fred had her own worries,   
she couldn't fail to notice Spike's concern for Connor. Nonetheless, Spike   
was hiding something from her, but all he would say was that Angel blamed   
him for what had happened.

 

"'There are 25 unread messages in your inbox'. 25! I don't know 25 people  
with email."

 

"It doesn't mean . . . " Fred began.

 

Spike cut her off. "_Welcome to WRH dot com mail service _. . . .  
blah blah blah. That's not important. _Special offer on all PowerDVD upgrades_.  
Nope. _Your PhotoShop Pro 8 trial licence has expired._ Really? Should  
I care? Special offer._ Bumper packs. Viagra at low, low prices._ Hah!  
P'raps I should forward that to His Holier-than-Thou-ness? A spot of satisfactory  
nookie might loosen him up a bit." Finally, he turned back to her. "Junk  
mail?" he asked incredulously.

 

"It's one of the downsides, If you check who each one is from, you can  
just delete the Spam without reading it."

 

"_Spam_?" He raised an eyebrow. "The stuff posing as meat - in cans?"

 

"It's actually a term coined from a Monty Python sketch."

 

"Never figured geeks going for Python – not that I'm accusing you of being  
a geek," he added hastily, "'cos you're not." Spike's voice softened, as   
he smiled gently up at her from under his lashes. "Not like any geek I've   
ever met, at any rate – 'cept Willow perhaps – without the threatening mojo."

 

Fred blushed and dropped her gaze from his. She wished Spike wouldn't do  
that, make her remember she was a woman, just when she needed all her powers  
of deduction to work out what was going on - She cleared her throat and  
scanned the monitor.

 

"You can delete all these," she said, pointing at the files, "But these   
last five are from Harmony."

 

Spike sighed and turned his attention back to reading, grumbling softly   
to himself as he did so. As Spike seemed occupied for the moment, Fred turned  
back to her laptop and studied the notes she'd been making before calling  
Angel's apartment. She added a reminder to herself to check when exactly  
Wolfram and Hart's mail server had changed its name, and why. She wondered  
just how much Spike knew about what she'd discovered about Connor. The boy's  
condition had puzzled her since Spike had brought him into the lab - barely  
conscious. The wound to his left side was deep and he'd lost a lot of blood,  
but by the time she'd rung the medical team and had begun cleaning him up,  
Connor's superficial wounds had already begun to heal and he'd begun to ask  
questions.

 

* * * * *

 

The medics wheeled a protesting Connor into the medical centre, while Fred  
took details of his blood group and medical history. She'd done her best  
to reassure him that they would contact his parents, Lawrence and Colleen,  
only if it was absolutely necessary. At first, the surgeon had thought that  
the stab-wound to Connor's side might have ruptured his spleen. It had bled  
profusely and there had been some discussion about operating and the need  
for blood. While the Med team fussed over Connor's condition, Fred took the  
opportunity to check his file. As she read through it though, something didn't  
add up. The blood group recorded as his did not match either of his parents.  
Curious and keen to look into it further, she returned to her computer to  
see if she could find out more'.

__

 

He could have been adopted, or a surrogate, she thought and quickly   
ran a search for a match in Wolfram and Hart's files, drawing up a short list,  
before relaying the information to the surgeon. Luckily, the list proved  
to be unnecessary. None of Connor's major organs had been damaged, and he  
had stopped bleeding, as the wound had been successfully closed with Dermabond.  
There was no need to operate after all.

 

Given the all clear, Connor was eventually released from the medical centre  
and into Fred's care. She'd been given a list of instructions for administering  
antibiotics and painkillers throughout the night. However, the name at the  
head of Fred's list spurred her to further research as they waited for Spike  
to return from his confrontation with Angel. By the time Spike appeared,  
Fred - with Knox's help - had run DNA checks on everyone on her short list.  
Two names had emerged as clear matches.

 

There was no doubt in Fred's mind that Connor's father was Angel and his  
mother was Darla.

 

* * * * *

 

"Bugger it!" Spike snarled, interrupting Fred's thoughts about how to broach   
the subject of Connor's lineage with him. "If Harm's got something to tell  
me, why didn't she just tell me?" He ran his fingers through his hair in  
frustration, snagging them in dried blood from the wound he'd sustained when  
the demons had attacked. Inwardly he'd breathed a sigh of relief at discovering  
the mysterious '_someone who really wanted to speak to him' _wasn't  
Buffy.

 

"Security, probably," replied Fred. "It's possible to find your way into  
any files, if you know how." She gestured at the dried blood under Spike's   
fingernails. "Would you like to take a shower to get rid of that before you  
go anywhere? You can use the one in my lab. I've some really nice Tea-Tree  
shampoo that will help with the healing." She glanced over at Connor. "That  
first dose of Kadian should be beginning to wear off about now so we should  
make it quick."

 

"Good idea, love. Then we can settle the little 'un down for the night,   
before I go find Harm and talk to this bartender she's so keen for me to meet.  
Hope I don't owe him anything, I'm all out of reddies."

 

* * * * *

 

"Do you think we should let Angel know what's going on?" Fred asked as  
they walked down the corridor. "I mean, he was so upset about Connor's injuries  
and it would set his mind at rest if he knew that he was safe in your office  
for the night." Fred studied Spike's face, watching for a sign that he knew  
anything about Angel's connection with the boy.

 

"S'pose we'd better, Pet. Not that it'll let me off the hook. As far as   
Angel's concerned, I'm an incompetent idiot who couldn't be trusted to .   
. ." Spike stopped and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Never mind,"   
he sighed. "P'raps you'd call him while I shower eh? Tell him the boy's OK.   
It'd be better coming from you."

 

Fred took his hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. "OK," she said quietly.

 

Spike looked down at his hand entwined in hers – and remembered the last  
time he'd held the hand of a woman about whom he cared. He gently pulled   
away and stuck both his hands in the pocket of his duster. This was not the   
time for memories – or new relationships. He had enough to worry about with   
the relations he already had.

 

The desk light was on in Wesley's office as Spike and Fred passed it. Peeking  
in, they could see Wesley slumped at his desk with his head on his arms,  
which were folded across a pile of books. The monitor was humming softly  
as the screen saver glided slowly across the screen.

 

"Looks like we're not the only ones spending the night here," whispered   
Spike as Fred softly closed the office door, leaving the ex-Watcher seemingly   
asleep on top of some of Wolfram &amp; Hart's most ancient tomes.

 

As the door latch clicked quietly shut, Wesley's head snapped up and he   
passed a hand across his weary eyes, wiping the last of the tears off his   
face. He tapped the computer mouse with the tip of his index finger. The monitor  
cleared the swirling image and revealed a message that had appeared when  
he had opened the pages concerning The Old Ones. Words that had plunged him  
down into the darkness of his memories.

****

 

Now is not the time.

 

When the Old One awakes,

 

Then shall the son stand beside the father.

 

Blood will flow and thwart the enemy.

 

Wesley turned to the pile of notes he'd made when he'd looked into the  
details of Connor's scholarship. His eyes narrowed and he clenched his jaw  
with determination as he read again a name he'd underlined and highlighted.

 

"Ethan Rayne," he hissed.

 

He checked his shotgun to make sure it was fully loaded and headed out  
into the night, in search of the man who had set in motion the threat to  
Connor and subsequently, the attack on them all.

 

* * * * *

 

Angel poured the last of the coffee from the pot he'd made for Gunn, as   
they went through the contents of the box he'd brought to Angel's apartment.

 

"Let's get this straight," said Angel, gesturing to the papers strewn across   
the table. "You're telling me there are two lots of files on Connor?"

 

"Yeah. And they're identical, right up until the night . . . "

 

"Spike killed the demon."

 

"Except we're not sure that's what happened. It's beginning to look like  
this whole thing was manufactured. There always was a plan to get Connor   
into Wolfram and Hart - just not yet. He was being kept as the insurance policy  
against you ever leaving or going back to fighting from the outside."

 

"So what happened? Why the change of plan?" Angel fidgeted in his chair,  
swivelling it away from Gunn towards the elevator, aching to move.

 

"It doesn't appear that there was a change of plan," Gunn replied. "From  
what I've managed to work out, there's been some interference by an outsider,  
hired by Jenoff. The Rayne Foundation only came into being the day Spike  
recorporealised..."

 

Angel interrupted, "That doesn't make any sense. Jenoff's own son was killed.   
What sort of father would go for that sort of deal?"

 

"He's a demon. One who'd sacrifice anyone to get what he wanted. His being   
father of the victim's not really the point, Angel. What we're dealing with  
is two different realities. The one we're in now is. . " Gunn stopped, struggling  
for the words to make Angel understand something with which he was having  
difficulty. "It's just not meant to be, OK? Reality is breaking down. I'm  
getting memories back about Connor and Cordy, and I'm losing the powers  
I got when we came here. All I know is that we need to put things back the  
way they should be. "

 

Angel looked at Gunn, saw the pain of loss in his eyes. "I know," he agreed,  
reluctantly._ I never got to say goodbye to Cordy either, never let her  
know how I felt about her, never kissed her the way I should._ "She just  
slipped away from us, Gunn. It wasn't supposed to end like that for her,  
I feel it."

 

Gunn nodded sympathetically, rose to his feet and strode towards the elevator.  
"I'm going to see if the White Room's still there and talk to the Big Cat  
if it is. Maybe that'll help."

 

Angel pushed aside the uneasy feeling he had any time Gunn mentioned the  
White Room. "We need to fill Wes in on what we've got here, see if he can  
make more sense of it than we can. Maybe he's turned up something in the   
scholarship papers." Angel reached for the phone and stopped mid-dial. "On   
second thoughts, a tour of the premises is called for," he said, pulling on  
his jacket. "Might be the last time we get the chance."

 

As the two men stepped into the elevator side by side, Angel turned to  
Gunn. " Meet me in Spike's office when you're finished, will you? I want  
to gather everyone together, make sure everyone knows what's going on. No  
more secrets, we face this together. "

 

Gunn dropped his eyes to the floor and, nodded his head in agreement. The  
two men stood in silence as the elevator descended to Angel's office. Angel  
stepped out of the elevator without a backward glance, and strode down the   
corridor towards the medical centre, planning what he was going to say to  
Connor when he got there.

 

When he doors closed behind Angel's receding back, Gunn looked up again.  
He'd kept his eyes firmly on the floor as the elevator descended from Angel's  
apartment. Now, as it journeyed back upwards, he gritted his teeth as he  
prepared to confront what he knew was waiting for him in the White Room.  
When he thought of the feline he knew would not be there, his eyes turned  
yellow and narrowed. The elevator stopped and the doors opened, silently,  
allowing the chill of cold air to rush into his lungs as he took a deep,  
calming breath. "Let's see how things go down this time, Charles," he growled,  
stepping out towards the man he'd come to fear more than any other since  
Cordelia's death -, the person he was becoming and from whom there was no  
escape.

 

Himself.

   
  
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	10. Family Connections

  
  
  


 

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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

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**Chapter  
10\. **Family Connections.

****

"No. Really, Angel, he's fine. Amazingly so, given what he's  
just been through. We put him on the sofa bed in Spike's office. . . What?  
No. The surgeon thought he'd be better there than in the Medical Centre.   
He was . . ." Fred paused, choosing her words carefully. "He was a little   
freaked at the sight of demon medics at first, so he'll need a familiar face  
around when he wakes up. Right. Give us twenty minutes. Spike's just finishing  
his shower. We'll meet you back in his office."

 

Fred closed her cell phone and looked over at the shower, just as a  
freshly scrubbed Spike emerged wearing her bathrobe and towelling his hair.

 

"Pink's not exactly my colour, Love. But thanks for the loan." Spike   
rubbed his hair vigorously and looked across at her.

 

Fred stood, with mouth slightly open gazing at the apparition in front  
of her.

 

"So, how'd he take it? Still breathing fire and out for my blood?"

 

Fred continued to stare at him in wonder. His damp hair full of unruly   
curls, blue eyes searching hers for a comforting sign. He looked so slight   
dressed in her bathrobe, so small without the bad-boy costume of black and   
leather._ So vulnerable_, she thought. _Like a fallen angel._ "Not  
at all," she said gently. "In fact, Charles has discovered something important.  
We're meeting in your office. Angel wants to talk to all of us. He's trying  
to track down Wesley and Lorne now."

 

"Oh well, fine," Spike thought for a moment. "S'pose the barkeep can  
wait a bit longer. I'd better get dressed then." He gestured towards the  
door next to the shower. "Just give me a mo."

 

"Spike," Fred called as he closed the door of the dressing room behind  
him, "I've something to - um - I found something, while the medical team  
was working on Connor."

 

Spike stopped towelling his chest and looked up at the door, his eyes   
narrowing in concern. "Yeah? And... er... just what might that be, Pet?"

 

"Well. You know that Connor was bleeding a lot when you brought him in.   
He was really badly injured from that stab wound . . ."

 

Spike frowned. What had she uncovered?

 

"We needed to find a blood match fast. There was none suitable in stock,  
so I ran a check on his files - and those of his parents."

 

Spike waited, hoping against hope that she hadn't looked too deeply into  
the files. _Fat chance. This is science-girl we're talking about. She  
doesn't give up. She digs deep._

 

"They didn't match, Spike. Neither of them." Fred paused, waiting for   
a response. She rubbed at the steam on the glass. _It's on the inside,   
Fred; you can't remove it from out here._ "Can you hear me in there?   
Silly question, I suppose. Vampire senses. I keep forgetting."

 

"I can hear you," Spike said quietly. "Go on."

 

"At first I thought, 'Oh, no worries. He could be adopted, or from a  
surrogate. So I decided to run a check on employees to see if I could find  
a match there."

 

"And did you?" Spike pulled on his black jeans and searched for his boots  
under the towels he'd dropped. Fred knew. _The clever little thing's  
worked it all out. Why is she beating about the bush like this?_ "

 

"Well yes, I did. We have an extensive biometrics database, maintaining   
a range of forensic quality identifiers on all our subjects. Cross matching  
the Human leukocyte antigen test results produced a short list of potential  
donors who could be easily reached in a very short time."

 

"Huh?"

 

Fred ignored him and continued, warming to her topic, gathering speed   
as she did so. "Everyone on the short list was male - which is interesting  
don't you think? I mean the proportion of males to females working here  
is pretty much 50/50, so you'd think there would have been some women on  
the list. But that wasn't the only reason it was interesting. Something pinged  
in the back of my mind when I read the list. Something I thought I knew,  
but I couldn't quite catch it. But I had a hunch, so I decided to follow  
it."

 

_See? Doesn't give up. Just like trying to work out how to make   
me all corporeal again._

 

"The presence of a specific antigen indicates a particular genetic marker.   
Parentage blood testing is based on the principle that the child inherits  
genetic markers in his blood from each of his biological parents." Fred  
shifted from one foot to another, irritated by having to talk to a door.  
She wanted to see Spike's reaction to what she was revealing.

 

Spike picked up his blood-spattered T-shirt and stared at the stains.   
Blood, it always comes back to blood. He bit his lip and felt the metallic   
tang on his tongue. Slowly, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and  
stared at the streak of red covering his knuckles. _My blood, Drusilla's   
blood. Angel's blood. _He looked towards the door frowning. Would a check   
on my blood lead to them? What about mother?

 

Fred stepped closer to the door and put her hand on the doorknob. "A  
check of the mitachondrial DNA gave me a lead to the mother, and a small  
tissue sample on her card file. Some of the files were classified and hidden  
away - like in the Fort Knox section." She giggled nervously and rolled  
her eyes at the analogy. "But Knox got me in. Sort of through the back  
door, so he said. He has access to all sorts of things I never knew existed."  
Fred paused. "Though I don't quite know how he got into these, because  
they're bio-tech protected, so that means he must . . ."

 

"Knox had to go to Fort Knox to get these files? Does he have family  
connections?" Spike asked easing his T-shirt over his head, trying to flatten  
his hair into submission as he did so.

 

Fred frowned at the interruption. Was Spike deliberately misunderstanding  
her analogy? She took a deep breath and continued. "I was able to set up  
a Polymerase Chain Reaction, that is to genetically photocopy enough of  
the mother's DNA to compare her nucleic DNA with Connor's to establish  
which part she had contributed. That left me with the code which had come  
from the father."

 

Spike thought for a moment. "You lost me, Love, 'round about mitachondrial  
DNA"

 

"Mitachondrial DNA is the code that is passed on, unchanged, from mother   
to offspring." Fred stopped, no longer fascinated by the scientific investigation  
she'd carried out, but concerned about the consequences of her findings.  
"Um, Spike?" Her voice softened. She put her hand on the doorknob again  
and began to turn it. "Do you know who Connor's mother and father are?"

 

"I do," he whispered stepping close to the door. "And so do you. Don't  
you, Pet?"

 

Fred opened the door. She looked into Spike's eyes and her own filled   
with tears. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't Angel tell me? Don't you   
trust me?"

 

Spike felt a surge of anger and dropped his gaze from hers. He didn't   
want Fred thinking it was directed at her. He picked his duster off the coat-rack  
and sighed. "I would've told you ages ago, but it wasn't for me to tell."

 

 

"Do the others know? Am I the only one who didn't?" She searched his  
face for reassurance.

 

Spike eyes softened again. "You all knew, once," he said. "Long story,"   
he added, seeing her puzzled look. "Bottom line, Angel didn't tell anyone   
what happened to Connor. He had his reasons," he said softly, wiping a tear   
from her cheek. "He didn't mean to hurt any of you."

 

Fred leaned her head against Spike's chest as he gently stroked her hair.  
"So why do I feel like this?"

 

Spike lifted her chin and looked deeply into her eyes. "Something to  
do with the gap in your memory's my guess." He brushed her cheek with his   
fingertips, then squared his shoulders and stepped away from her. "We'd best  
be getting back," he said, "Connor will be awake soon with questions about  
this place that need answering. God alone knows what Angel is planning to  
say to him." Or to the rest of you, for that matter. "You OK, Pet?"

 

"Not really, I mean, it's not everyday you find out that there's a huge   
hole in the world where your memories used to lead." Fred locked the door   
to the lab with shaking fingers and held the arm Spike offered as they walked   
back towards his office.

 

"You know," she said brightly. "We know that Darla and Angel are Connor's  
parents. What we don't know is how." She blushed. "I mean, we do know how,  
obviously, but we don't understand how it was possible for two vampires  
to produce a normal healthy human." She stopped and tilted her head slightly.  
"I have this theory about genetic engineering . . . "

 

Spike smiled. That's more like it!

 

\----------

 

Angel looked at Gunn and slowly shook his head in disbelief. Things couldn't  
possibly get any worse. Could they? "No Big Cat?"

 

Gunn stared at the floor in front of Spike's desk and didn't respond.

 

"So, what was there? Was the room even there this time?" Angel lowered  
his voice so that he wouldn't wake Connor.

 

Gunn nodded, refusing to meet Angel's enquiring look.

 

Angel prompted again. "Was there anything there?" Gunn looked smaller,  
somehow, slumped in a chair, refusing to make eye contact. Angel had never  
seen him so traumatised.

 

"Not a thing - a one."

 

"A one _what_?"  
Angel glanced anxiously over his shoulder at Connor stirring slightly on  
the sofa bed. _Don't let him wake up until Spike gets here_, he prayed  
silently.

 

"_Some_one," Gunn intoned looking blankly into the space beyond  
the window.

 

"Who? A new conduit? Like the little girl?" Angel stood up and crossed  
the room to where Connor lay. He picked up the blanket that had slipped  
onto the floor and gently replaced it over his son. "Get a move on Spike.  
What's taking you so long?" he muttered under his breath.

 

"No - Yes - No, not like the little girl," Gunn looked at Angel in anguish.  
"A man."

 

"Did he help? Did you get anything out of him?"

 

"Only a beating," Gunn said quietly. "And a lesson I won't forget in  
a hurry."

 

"What? I don't understand. . "

 

"I told you, Angel. Reality's unravelling. We don't belong here. We have   
to find a way home. There's no way through the White Room any more." Gunn   
sank back into the chair and closed his eyes. "Did you get Wes?"

 

"I tried his office but it's locked and he's not answering his phone."

 

 

"Watcher was sleeping the sleep of the just on top of a pile of books   
last time we looked." Spike nodded at Gunn. "Looks like Chuck could do with   
a spot of the same."

 

"How long have _you_ been here?" Angel asked, turning to face the  
younger vampire. He was surprised to see Fred standing in the doorway,  
holding Spike's arm as if she would collapse without the support he was  
providing.

 

"Long enough to know we've got more problems than we deserve if we're   
talking unravelling realities. We've already got Fred's alternative universes   
to consider." Spike replied.

 

"Alternative universes?" Fred's found alternative universes now? Here?"  
Angel looked bemused.

 

"I never said alternative universes. I was talking about genetic engineering  
and the possibilities _that_ would provide for vampires."

 

Spike led her over to an armchair, watching Angel's face as he did so.  
_Things are hotting up, he thought. Talk of vampires and genetics  
from Fred, unravelling realities from Charlie Boy. What next? _

 

Spike looked on with concern as Fred lowered herself into the chair,  
crossing her arms in defence against the next emotional attack on her already  
shaky confidence. "Oh, was _that_ what you were on about? Keep telling  
you, Pet, can't expect me to keep up when you go all science-girl." Spike  
smiled gently at her. "I'm still stuck in the Industrial Revolution, or  
the Dark Ages, according to _some _ people.” Spike focused his attention  
on Angel and jerked his head in Connor's direction. "How's the boy?"

 

"If that's me you're talking about - the boy's awake. And chock full  
of questions." Connor eased himself into a sitting position and reached  
for the shirt on the arm of the sofa. "Is anyone going to tell me what happened   
in the medical ward? Who - what were those things that did all those tests   
on me?"

 

Spike moved quickly through the room and sat on the sofa arm, gathering   
his thoughts together before he spoke. "They're good doctors. You were in   
safe hands - or -um claws."

 

Connor frowned slightly. "What were those things that attacked us?"

 

 

Spike shrugged. _What the hell_, he thought. _Boy knows something's  
afoot_. "Some kind of demon."

 

"We're looking into it," added Angel.

 

"Is that what I am? Some kind of demon?" Connor asked, indicating the   
fading wounds on his hands.

 

Angel opened his mouth to respond but Spike cut him off. "No, you're  
not."

 

"Then...what am I?" Connor appealed first to Spike, then to Fred.

 

"Best we can tell, you're a healthy, well-adjusted kid, with uh... enhanced  
abilities," Spike replied.

 

"And you're a vampire. So...demons, vampires, doctors with claws... and   
I'm some sort of super-hero." Connor shrugged. "OK." He swung himself off   
the bed, clutching a sheet to his waist, and rummaged through the pile of   
bedclothes for his pants. He winced slightly as he bent down to retrieve   
his underpants from the floor.

 

Angel laughed with relief. "You're taking this pretty well."

 

"What am I supposed to do, complain? I just don't know how I'm gonna  
explain it to my parents." He gripped his underpants in one hand and the  
sheet in the other. "You got family?" he asked, turning to Angel.

 

"No - Not blood kin, at any rate, not unless you count Spike . . ." said  
Angel.

 

Connor considered this for a second. "Right. You're a Vampire too. So,  
what? Did you? What's the word?"

 

"Sire. The word's sire. And the short version is - no, he didn't," said  
Spike. He glanced at Angel who gave him a grateful nod.

 

_Maybe we're going to get away with this after all_, Angel thought.  
_Maybe Connor doesn't need to know._

 

Connor interrupted Angel's thoughts, hopping on one leg to try to dress   
himself beneath the sheet. "Right. So you guys, like fight crime and save   
the world here, that sort of stuff?"

 

"Well, that's the idea," Angel smiled at the contortions his son was  
performing in an attempt to retain some semblance of modesty in front of  
Fred.

 

"Wow. Is everyone here a superhero? This place must be insane." Connor  
released the sheet. His boxer briefs were in place, inside-out and backwards,  
the label proudly proclaiming their origins from Champion.

 

Angel chuckled at the sight. "It's mostly para-legals, scientists and   
secretaries. Pretty boring, really," he said, repressing the laughter that   
threatened again.

 

"Boring? You're finding this boring?" Gunn's voice cut through the mirth.  
"Haven't you heard a word I said to you? This . . ."

 

"Not now, Charles," pleaded Fred. "We should talk about this later."

 

Gunn stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. "Why not now?   
Do you know what's happening? What we're facing?" He got up from his chair  
and stood over her, glaring. "You don't know anything about this. You don't   
understand what's at stake. You need to know. Everyone needs to know. We   
can't fight it alone." Gunn turned to Angel "You said we were going to . .  
."

 

"I know. And we will. Just not yet. Not until . . ." Angel searched for   
an excuse.

 

"Not until Wes gets here," Spike finished for him

 

"Wes _is_ here," said a quiet voice from the corridor.

 

Still holding his shotgun in one hand, Wesley shoved a figure through   
the door with the other. "_This_," he snapped icily, "has the answers   
to many of our questions." He threw the man further into the room, causing  
him to stumble against the desk and onto the floor.

 

The man turned a face sporting recent injuries to the others, who were  
gazing in astonishment at Wesley's dramatic entrance. "Well, well, well,  
just look at the great big happy extended family gathered in my honour,"  
he smirked, slowly picking himself up. "Though, by the looks of things,  
not so much happy, but _definitely_ extended."

 

"Wes?" Angel looked at Wesley for an explanation.

 

"Allow me to introduce Ethan Rayne," said Wesley. "Known to us all as   
Eden Kane, the . . ."

 

"Trustee I met the other day," said Connor.

 

"Pop singer from the 60s. Purveyor of the sort of music I should have   
eaten him for inflicting on the public," added Spike, simultaneously. "I   
knew the name didn't match_ this_ face." He growled quietly and stood   
beside Ethan, their faces mere inches apart. "I know you from somewhere else,  
don't I?" he asked threateningly.

 

"Don't believe I've had the - _pleasure_," croaked Ethan, as Spike   
slipped into game face and grabbed him by the throat. "I'm sure I would have  
remembered if we had," he gasped. Spike hauled Ethan into the air and held  
his struggling form as he clutched at Spike's hands and fought for breath.

 

"Much as I hate to interrupt your _reunion_ with Ethan," Wesley  
said. "We need him in one piece if we're to get the information he will  
provide."

 

Spike reluctantly released Ethan onto the floor and dropped back into   
his human features. "Pity, I would have really enjoyed squeezing the information  
out before choking the life out of him."

 

Angel checked Connor's face to judge his reaction to what had just happened   
and was relieved to see curiosity rather than disgust or horror.

 

"So, is _Ethan_ a demon?" asked Connor, prodding the prone figure  
on the floor with his foot.

 

"Not a demon, but a worshipper of chaos. Someone who delights in causing   
trouble and walking away from the consequences," replied Wesley.

 

"Giles!" exclaimed Spike, clicking his fingers.

 

Angel swung his head towards the door. "Giles is here?" he asked.

 

"No, not _here_, you great lummox. Giles, and the Fyarl demon. That's  
where I heard all about Ethan Rayne."

 

"Ethan and Giles with a Fyarl demon?" Angel turned back to Spike. "I  
didn't know Giles - you know - consorted with demons. Was this in an alternative  
reality?"

 

Spike shook his head impatiently and began to gabble. "Giles was a Fyarl  
demon. Buffy almost killed him. I helped - not to kill him," he added hastily.  
"You see . . ."

 

Wesley cleared his throat. "Do you think this might wait for another  
time?" he asked, patiently. "Because we have more pressing matters to attend  
to. Ethan has a very interesting story to tell us. Don't you Ethan?" Wesley   
pointed his shotgun at Ethan's head. "Remember what we discussed at that disgustingly  
opulent apartment you were given for your part in this little plan? Don't  
think that just because there is a child present, or that there are human  
witnesses whose conscience might force them to report a killing to the police,  
that I won't go through with it. After all, I might end up in prison, but  
you'd still be very dead."

 

Fred watched in horror as Wesley hauled Ethan to his feet and struck  
him across the head with the butt of the shotgun. She gasped and covered  
her mouth with her hand to stifle a scream.

 

" Aargh," yelled Ethan, clutching his head. "There was no need for that.  
I said I'd tell you all I know. Not that I know very much, other than what  
I told you at the flat."

 

"Why am I inclined to believe that you were lying?" asked Wesley, grabbing  
Ethan by the front of his shirt and pulling him close. "Perhaps it's because  
your reputation doesn't include a _can-be-trusted_ recommendation.  
Now," he pushed Ethan into the desk chair and aimed the shotgun into his  
face, "start singing. And make sure I like the tune."

 

Angel placed a restraining hand on Wesley's shoulder. "Er, Wes, shouldn't  
we wait for Lorne to get here before he sings?"

 

"I wasn't really expecting him to burst into song." Wesley turned to  
Angel and considered for a moment. "But, now that you mention it, that's  
a very good idea. Where _is_ Lorne?"

 

"On his way in," replied Angel. "Nursing a hangover from Hell, by the   
sound of it. Vegas didn't agree with him. He should be here any minute."

 

Spike remained silent, not wanting to interrupt her flow, wondering how  
much she was going to reveal, and when.

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
---|---


	11. Skeletons in the Cupboard

  
  
  


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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

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**Chapter  
11\. **Skeletons in the Cupboard.

****

"Why don't you put the gun down, Wes?" Angel said quietly.  
He dropped his hand from Wesley's shoulder and waved Spike closer. "Put  
Ethan somewhere secure and uncomfortable, will you? We'll hear what he has  
to say later."

 

Spike grabbed Ethan by his collar and hauled him to his feet. "What? You  
mean like the very secure place you put that Pavayne bloke? You'll like  
him," he said turning to Ethan and grinning. He dragged the mage towards  
the door. "You two have a lot in common."

 

"Spike!" Angel warned. "We _need _him. Just lock him in the closet   
in the mailroom. There's nothing there of any help to him. Trust me," he added  
in response to Spike's questioning look, "I know."

 

As Spike left, Angel turned and faced the others. "Let's go upstairs. We've  
a lot to go over." He lowered his voice, glancing over his shoulder at his  
son. "Not here. Connor doesn't need to be in on any of this,"

 

"I don't?" asked Connor. "Why not? I thought this was all about me? I'm   
entitled to be in on it." He'd finished dressing and,, limping slightly,,   
had edged gingerly from the sofa to stand beside Angel.

 

Angel looked at him and frowned. "_Some_ of it is about you. What  
I want to talk about concerns _them_. And you need to stay here and  
rest." He turned to Fred. "Isn't it time for more meds?"

 

Fred uncurled herself and got out of the her chair, reluctant to leave  
the corner in which she'd chosen to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.  
"The doctor gave me some antibiotics. He should have those. The pain killers  
are _as and when required_," She opened the fridge and peered inside.  
"There's only beer and blood in here. Connor needs something to take the  
pills with."

 

"Beer's fine," said Connor .

 

"Oh no it's not!" Angel had a quick look around. "There's water _here_."  
He poured some into a tumbler from a jug that Spike had left beside the  
bed, and handed it to Connor.

 

Fred held out her hand. "Take these, and get back into bed. You need to   
get some more sleep."

 

Connor looked from Fred's hand to Angel and back again to Fred, his face   
creased in a frown. " Why are you treating me like a child? I get enough of  
the _you need more sleep_ routine at home, from Mom."

 

Fred closed her fist and dropped her hand. "Sorry, so sorry," she mumbled.   
"It's just . . . " She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and straightened  
her back. "Take the antibiotic capsules._ Now_! If you're worried about  
your street-cred with the rest of the testosterone gang here, leave the  
pain killers."

 

Connor reached out and took the capsules from her hand. He looked at her  
with new-found respect in his eyes. "Yes Ma'am." He swallowed the capsules   
with one gulp of water. "You're nothing_ like_ Mom. You're cool," he  
said, eyeing her appreciatively.

 

Angel stepped in between Connor and Fred. "Are you all right, Fred.You  
seem a little . . ."

 

"Fine," she snapped, coldly. "I'm - fine. I just need a little time to  
adjust to. . . " She searched the faces in the room, frantically. "Does  
everyone else remember? Am I the only one who . . . "

 

"The only one who what?" asked Gunn. "The only one who still thinks we're  
all here because we can do some good working from inside this place? Or  
the only one who didn't trade something important for their position?"

 

"Trade? What do you mean, trade?" asked Fred, shakily. "We got our positions   
here because we're good at what we do. Wesley?" she appealed to the ex-Watcher,  
"that's right, isn't it?"

 

Wesley sighed and put the shotgun on the desk. He looked at the ceiling   
for inspiration and, finding none, took hold of Fred's hands and led her back  
to her chair. "Fred," he said gently. "We all traded something for our places  
here," he paused, looking to the others for confirmation of his next words,  
"except for you. You took the job believing you could make a difference.  
Believing you could go on fighting the forces of evil even better with all  
the resources Wolfram and Hart has to offer. There was never anything to  
be gained for you personally. For the rest of us," he glanced at Angel; "there  
was something important to be gained that would have been lost to us if  
we'd refused the offer."

 

"You all have your memories back. Why don't I? Why am I the only one who  
doesn't remember?" She put a hand to her mouth to cover her trembling lip.

 

Angel joined Wesley at Fred's side and took her hands in his. "You don't   
remember because, apart from Connor, you're the only truly innocent one here,"   
he said, softly.

 

"Guess that means I'm not as innocent as you think," Connor interrupted.  
"I_ know_ you're my father."

 

Angel's eyes widened and he swung round to face his son. "You got your  
memories back?" He looked away from Connor, and stared at the floor, unable  
to meet his eyes.

 

"Yeah, after the attack, when I realised Spike was a vampire, they started  
to flash in piece by piece. They're mixed in there with the new ones. Kind  
of like, uh... a bad dream I had, I guess, a very strange and violent, at  
times, inappropriately erotic...dream." Connor dropped his head and studied  
the same spot on the carpet that seemed to have captivated Angel.

 

"Then you probably _do _have a lot of questions."

 

"Told ya, I have a whole bunch of them. But not about . . . " Connor glanced   
at his father. "No. I don't want to make a thing about . . . I get what you  
did. You know... I'm grateful. That's as far as I want to take it...OK?"  
He looked into Angel's eyes and gave him a small smile.

 

"OK?" Angel breathed a sigh of relief. It was that simple. He'd spent weeks   
agonising about how he was going to tell Connor, and it all boiled down to  
an _OK_.

 

"But I do want to know about all this." Connor waved his hands in the direction  
of the others. "And about why I'm here at Wolfram and Hart."

 

"You shouldn't be," said Gunn.

 

"Huh?"

 

"You should be – I don't know, somewhere else, somewhere safe, not heading  
for a law-court where they're out for your blood."

 

"Or your soul," added Wesley.

 

"I . . . I don't understand." Connor shook his head slowly.

 

"None of us do," replied Angel. "I suppose I'd better fill you in on what  
we've got."

 

Connor nodded. "It'd be a start."

 

"We've got leads to something from your personal files here, though which   
files we should look at I'm not too sure," Angel said grimacing. "There seems  
to be two different sets, leading in different directions and . . ."

 

"Bits pieced together from the scholarship papers," interrupted Wesley.   
"But we won't understand how it all fits together unless we get some information  
out of Ethan."

 

"I don't understand," said Fred. "How all _what _fits together?" Fred  
lifted her head and smiled nervously over Angel's head. "Maybe Lorne could  
help. Lorne, you could read Connor, couldn't you?"

 

Lorne shook his head, steadied himself on the doorframe and took another  
gulp from the glass he was carrying. "Oh, I don't think that would be such  
a good idea, Cupcake. I'm a little burned. Usually I love it. You know,  
folk sing, I read their futures, their auras, I see into their souls ...  
but I've had a little too much Copa Cabana action. I think my horns short-circuited  
during the all-night party that lasted all week."

 

Connor swung his head to where Fred had directed her attention. "Wow! Lorne!  
What're you doing here?"

 

"Been asking myself that a lot, recently, buckaroo." Lorne staggered through   
the door clutching an almost-empty bottle to his chest in one hand and a  
half-full glass in the other. He waved the glass in Angel's direction and  
giggled. "Angel, I've still got a head full of kidnappings, demon possession,  
not to mention rains of fire. I was thinking of retiring from the whole  
Wolfram and Hart gig, going for a quiet life with the C-list somewhere in  
the Arctic. Did I mention the rains of fire?" he hiccuped. "I'm not sure  
I could even . . ."

 

Angel put a comforting arm over Lorne's shoulder and gently pulled him  
to one side "Please, Lorne. Do this one last thing for me."

 

"I wish I could," Lorne groaned. He looked at the liquid in his glass.  
"What do you call a Sea Breeze when there weren't any cranberries or grapefruit?"  
He took another swig. "Neat vodka," he laughed. "So what do you call it  
when you couldn't find any vodka either?"

 

"Wes's best Lavagulin?" Spike offered. He'd been on his way back, just  
yards behind Lorne and watched Lorne raid Wesley's office. "Well, now the  
Host's here, suppose it's time for the party. You want me to retrieve our  
friend from the closet now? Waste of time that was," he grumbled. "Although,"  
he pursed his lips, "on second thoughts, not too sure he's in a ShowTime  
kinda mood. Think I might have accidentally damaged the vocal chords a little  
– "_What_?" he raised an eyebrow as Wesley fixed him with an angry  
glare. "Keep your powder dry, Wyatt. He can still talk. Just sayin' he's  
not in the mood for a Karaoke. He's – erm – _restin_."

 

Angel sighed. "All right, Spike. Leave Ethan where he is for now." He turned  
to Lorne with concern. "Why can't you read Connor?

 

Lorne collapsed into the nearest chair and poured another drink into his  
glass.

 

"No more of that!" Angel knocked the glass out of Lorne's grip with one   
hand and snatched the bottle from him with the other. "I _need _you."   
He stopped and turned to the others. "I need_ all _of you firing on all  
cylinders."

 

Lorne looked up at Angel through swollen eyelids. "You don't know what  
it's been like," he whimpered. "Ever since Spike mentioned Connor's name  
. . . ever since I got my memory back . . . They won't stop. The visions  
just keep coming, Angel. And they're driving me insane."

 

Angel wiped his hand across his mouth and gathered his thoughts. "Listen  
to me," he said. "There are two realities, or two time-lines . . . I'm not   
too sure about any of this . . .but the way I understand it, if you will  
hear Connor sing, if you can read his destiny, we'll know which is the reality  
we're meant to be in. Only you can do this, Lorne," he added at Lorne's  
disbelieving look. "– You _can_."

 

\----------

 

Angel turned the lights down, leaving just one lamp to light the lyrics   
Connor had downloaded from the Internet. Connor glanced anxiously at his audience.

 

"Erm – I haven't had much experience at this," he said bashfully.

 

"Don't worry, kid," said Spike. "There's no way you're going to be as bad  
at it as your Pa. Go for it."

 

Connor held the lyric sheet at arm's length and began to sing.

 

#_ I,_

 

I will be king

 

And you,

 

You will be queen

 

Though nothing will drive them away

 

We can beat them,

 

Just for one day

 

We can be Heroes,

 

Just for one day

 

Though nothing, will keep us together

 

We could steal time,

 

Just for one day

 

We can be Heroes, forever and ever

 

What d'you say? #

 

Fred stirred uneasily in her chair. "Handsome man, save me from the monsters,"  
she murmured.

 

Wesley watched her with concern, his own thoughts turning to Lilah.

 

Lorne sat, motionless, in the desk chair, staring out of the window and   
frowning.

 

Spike jumped to his feet and clapped Connor on the shoulder. "Good choice,   
man. Not the Bowie version, from what I just heard. Had more grit in it."

 

"Bowie? Who's that?" asked Connor, grinning. "Naw, got a bootlegged copy  
of the Pogues' cover."

 

Spike beamed. "Boy has taste. Same with the footy team."

 

"Pogues?" asked Angel. "Are they an Irish band?"

 

"Guess some of the background must've worn off then," said Spike.

 

Angel smiled at Connor proudly.

 

"Well, _doh_. My parents' surname is Riley. How much more Irish can  
that . . ." Connor's voice trailed off as he realised what he'd just said.  
He looked at Angel's crestfallen face. "Oh, God, I didn't mean . . .I just   
. . . " He crumpled the lyrics sheet in his hand and let it drop to the floor.  
"This is just a little confusing, you know."

 

"More than a little," agreed Lorne. He'd turned the desk chair away from  
Connor so that he couldn't see him while he sang and was now slumped forward   
clutching his head. "Angel, I need another drink. Do you think I could .  
. .?"

 

"No! No more drinks." Angel swung Lorne in his chair so that he was facing  
Connor once more. "Tell me what you saw. What's his destiny?"

 

Lorne lowered his hands and looked up into Angel's concerned face. His  
nose was bleeding, his eyes bloodshot and puffed. He turned his gaze to  
Connor. "Which one, Bubba? The one where he's fighting alongside you against  
the Powers that Be, defending his father? Or the one where he's fighting  
alone, against evil lawyers, defending the helpless? Either way, it doesn't  
look too good for_ any _of us.

 

   
  
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	12. Pasts, Presents, and Futures

  
  
  


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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

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**Chapter   
12\. **Pasts, Presents, and Futures.

****

For an instant nobody moved, the stillness in the room underlined  
by the stunned silence that greeted Lorne’s words. Fred was the first to  
shake herself out of the frozen moment and rush to his side. She knelt beside  
him and wiped his face with a tissue.

 

"Oh my God, Lorne. What’s happened to you?"

 

"Same as happened last time, Honeybunch. Don’t fuss. It’ll pass in a day   
or so. At least, the nosebleeds and scary eyes will. Can’t say the same for  
the migraine."

 

Lorne patted her hand in thanks and turned to Angel. "Does this make things   
any clearer? Because I don’t think I’m up for any encores."

 

"This is all wrong. You don’t get like this after a reading." Angel ignored   
the question and his brow creased with concern. He indicated Lorne’ face.   
"Does this look like anything familiar to you guys?"

 

Wesley spoke for the first time since Lorne had entered the room. "Cordelia’s   
visions."

 

"Factor in a _writ large_ in there," agreed Gunn.

 

"Keep me in the loop, why don’t you?" complained Spike. "Cordelia had  
visions?"

 

"You’re missing the point, guys. Cordy’s gone. How come Lorne is reacting   
this way? " Angel asked before turning back to Lorne "Are you seeing anything   
at other times? Any times when you’re not doing a reading?"

 

"Angelcakes, you didn’t listen to me. I told you these things started  
back at that meeting. The one where Spike first mentioned Connor. That was  
about the time that . . . "

 

"About the time that Cordy died," whispered Fred.

 

Angel moved to Spike’s desk and ran his fingers across the files that  
Gunn and Wesley had brought to the meeting. He turned slowly and faced  
the others. "It’s about time everyone was brought up to speed, but first,  
we should do something for Lorne. Fred, how about giving him some of those  
pain killers Connor’s so keen not to take?"

 

Fred took Lorne’s hands away from his eyes and held them gently in her   
own. "Is the pain really bad?" she asked softly.

 

Lorne closed his eyes against the light and nodded.

 

"These pain killers contain morphine. You’ll sleep for hours if I give   
you any."

 

"Well, he’s in no state to read our meddlesome mage," said Spike. "I vote   
we let the Green Man get in a few zeds. Gives us the opportunity to extract   
the info out of Ethan the old fashioned way. What d’ya say, Charlie Boy?   
You up for a spot of action?"

 

Spike indicated the door with a jerk of his head and swiftly crossed the   
room to make his exit. Angel stepped into his path and blocked the way.

 

"I need Gunn here for a while. He has things to tell the others. And,  
while I don't have any objections to you working Ethan over, I’d like you  
to be here to hear what Gunn and Wes have uncovered."

 

Spike raised his eyebrows in surprise. "No objections to a spot of violence   
on a human eh?"

 

"He forfeited the right to any consideration as a human when he sided  
with evil – and put my family in jeopardy," snarled Angel. He stepped to  
one side and addressed the others again. "That doesn’t just mean Connor –  
or Spike," he added, glancing sideways at the younger vampire. "It means  
all of you. Ethan’s actions have somehow created two different time lines.  
Gunn found something . . . " Angel waved at the files on the desk. "The floor’s  
yours, Gunn. Fill them in. I’ll make us all some coffee."

 

Fred looked up in alarm. "Two different time lines? How? I mean, it’s  
always been discussed as a possibility every time a choice is made. That  
would mean an infinite number of different universes - well strictly speaking   
it’s more to do with quantum physics and black holes than with individual   
choices, but then Hawkins’ recent paper on dark matter, where he concedes   
his earlier work may have been flawed . . . And I’m babbling again, aren’t   
I?" She looked from one concerned face to another. "It’s OK, I’m still just   
a little confused. Must be the gaps in my memories. Do you think if I take   
some of these I’ll have them back when I wake up?" she asked Lorne as she   
handed him some pills.

 

Lorne smiled weakly at her. "It’s not worth the risk, sweetness. Vulnerable   
people plus drug cocktails. Not a pretty result."

 

"Besides, we need your brain power intact to help solve the conundrum,"  
added Gunn. He took up a folder from the desk, opened it, then closed it  
and put down again. "Bottom line. There are two different files on Connor  
here at Wolfram and Hart. They’re identical up until the moment whatever  
happened between Spike and that demon in the bar."

 

Connor looked at his father, opened his mouth to speak and closed it again   
as Angel raised a finger to his lips.

 

"From that moment, the files diverge. The one relating to this . . . _time-line_,  
for the want of a better word, is full of detail. The other is full too,   
but it’s locked to us – what it’s full of is just blank paper." Gunn looked   
across to where Wesley sat watching Fred as she helped Lorne settle more   
comfortably on the sofa bed Connor had so recently vacated. "Wes was looking   
into the details of the scholarship but I discovered that _it_ didn’t   
exist before Spike became corporeal again."

 

Spike shifted from his perch on the edge of the desk. "Time going wonky?   
Just when I came back with all systems functioning so to speak? Does that  
explain why I get the feeling I should never have been brought back in  
the first place?"

 

"It’s not _you _being here that caused the problem," said Angel.  
"I can’t believe I just said that," he added with a wry grin in response  
to Spike’s look of disbelief. "It’s what Ethan did when he started acting  
for Jenoff and set up the Rayne Foundation, that seems to have set things  
in motion. What did you unearth, Wes?"

 

Wesley slowly got to his feet and turned to face the window, his back  
to the others to prevent them seeing anything on his face that would betray   
the fact that he was about to withhold information from them. "The Rayne Foundation  
was set up for the sole purpose of bringing Connor into Wolfram and Hart.  
The profile drawn up for the recipient of the scholarship ensured that only  
Connor would be acceptable. The terms of the scholarship were made so attractive  
that Connor would be unable to resist the conditions it offered. That, of  
itself gave me cause to be suspicious but it was the _name_ of the Foundation  
that led me to dig a little deeper. I’d heard about Ethan from my time as  
a Watcher in Sunnydale and my contact with Rupert Giles. I gave Giles a ring  
. . . " Wesley shot a glance over his shoulder at Angel. "I know your relationship  
is somewhat strained at the moment, but we’d been in contact earlier, when  
Spike first appeared out of the amulet." Wesley turned back to the window  
again. "Giles filled me in on Ethan’s background and . . . " He paused, unsure  
how to proceed with the next part of his exposition without revealing the  
full prophecy. " And as I was working with some of the scripts on demons,  
a message appeared on my computer screen."

 

"A message?" asked Angel. "You mean an email?"

 

"No, not an email. The screen went black and the message appeared on it,   
out of nowhere."

 

"Let me guess," said Spike. "It wasn’t a reminder to put out the rubbish   
tomorrow."

 

"More of a reminder that tomorrow means very different things in different  
time lines," replied Wesley. "It urged me to look more closely at demons   
known as The Old Ones."

 

Fred left Lorne who was now sleeping peacefully and moved to stand beside   
Wesley. "Do you know where this message came from?"

 

"No," replied Wesley glumly, "I was more concerned with finding Ethan.   
I didn’t think to try to trace its origin."

 

Angel handed both of them a mug of coffee. "Do you think you and Wes might   
be able to track down the messenger somehow? Can you . . . What’s the word?   
Hack your way through?"

 

"I think so," said Fred. "Knox showed me a way into files I didn’t even  
know existed. It’ll be good to focus on something I can get to grips with."  
She put her untouched coffee on the desk and touched Angel’s arm. "What  
about Connor?"

 

Angel looked at his son. "Got even more questions now, huh?"

 

"Master of the understatement, your Pa," Spike explained, throwing an  
arm over Connor’s shoulder. "How’s about it Unc. Want to join me and Gunn  
to find out some of the answers in the mailroom closet?"

 

"_Not _a good idea, Spike," said Angel, alarmed by Spike’s invitation

 

"What? You think he’s too delicate to witness that? Haven’t you been listening   
to what he’s been through?"

 

"Angel’s right," said Connor.

 

"You wimping out as well? It’s not as if you’d be in any danger. Makes   
a bloke ashamed to call you kin," Spike snorted.

 

"It’s not that I can’t take it. It’s just . . . that’s not part of who   
I am now." Connor paused, turning Spike’s words over in his head. "Wimp?"   
he said indignantly. "If I’m your Uncle how about showing a little respect  
for your ancestors?"

 

Spike chuckled. "You _are _a chip off the old block. The Old Man’s  
always telling me that."

 

Angel gave Connor a lopsided grin. "Thanks. Gunn, would you and Spike  
go and see what you can get out of Ethan without killing him? And Fred,  
go with Wes and see what you can do about this mysterious messenger. I’ll  
stay here and keep an eye on Lorne and spend a little quality time with  
Connor, if that’s OK with you?" he asked smiling at his son.

 

\----------

 

Gunn unlocked the closet and pushed the door open. "You can come out now,"  
he called. "Game’s over."

 

Ethan peered cautiously round the door. "Oh and here I was having so much   
fun. No one found me in here. What do we play next?"

 

Spike grabbed him by the collar and yanked him into the mailroom. "Story  
time, mate. Now . . . " he kicked Ethan into the middle of the room. "Sit!"  
he ordered, pointing to a chair. "Are we sitting comfortably? Then I’ll  
begin. Once upon a time there was a nasty little weasel called Ethan Rayne,  
who grew tired of playing with the wee folk and thought he'd move into the  
big time. "

 

Spike stepped back and tilted his head, narrowing his eyes as he did so.   
"You want to add the next part? Or do I need to draw some pictures in blood   
for you first? Your call."

 

"I just want to begin by saying that none of this was my idea," Ethan  
said, turning to face Gunn. "You should know. You deal with them. You know  
just how unreasonable they can be once you sign up for the perks."

 

Spike frowned. "What’s he on about?"

 

"Nothing," replied Gunn. "Quit stalling, Ethan, or I’ll let Spike do what   
he’s aching to do to you. Hit him, Spike, just to give him a taster."

 

"Thought you’d never ask." Spike aimed a single blow at Ethan’s head,  
taking care to pull his punch to ensure he remained conscious.

 

"Aaaargh!" screamed Ethan. "What do you want to know?"

 

"Everything," snarled Spike. "But let’s start with your involvement with   
Jenoff."

 

"It wasn’t Jenoff who hired me. It was Eve. She asked me to head up the  
Foundation to make sure some kid came into the firm. They told me it was  
a way of keeping Angel and his team tied into the firm."

 

"What was in it for you?" asked Gunn, "apart from a pile of cash and comfy   
living quarters."

 

"It’s my vocation. I’m duty bound to make the lives of hypocritical do-gooders   
a little more uncomfortable, wherever I can."

 

"Stop side-tracking," said Spike, hitting him again. "Or _I’ll _be  
duty bound to hit you again, only harder."

 

Ethan rubbed his chin. "Hey! You nearly broke my jaw. I need that to talk.  
And I’m not sidetracking, I’m explaining. You need to hear the reasons  
why I did what I did . . ."

 

"What we _need_ is to know what you did and who you did it for. And   
what you need is to tell us the truth or I’ll let Spike work off some of   
the aggression he’s already feeling towards you," said Gunn.

 

"If I tell you, without explaining, how can I be sure he won’t kill me   
afterwards?"

 

"Because I’m one of those hypocritical do-gooders you’ve got a down on,"   
growled Spike. "My conscience wouldn’t let me kill a human, even a snivelling  
excuse of one like you. But . . ." Spike smirked menacingly, "I can’t vouch   
for my Grandsire on that one any more. He’s traded his white hat for a grey   
one by the sound of things."

 

Ethan blanched and began to sweat. He looked round the room for a possible   
means of escape. There were no windows and only one door, and Spike stood   
between him and that exit. He swallowed and appealed to Gunn. "Look, we’re   
both men of reason. Can’t you give me something to work with? Some guarantee  
that when . . . _if_ I tell you what you want to know, that I won’t   
become a victim to the vampire’s tendency to solve problems through violence?"

 

"Lucky for you we work as a team," replied Gunn. "If it comes down to  
a vote, Angel ‘d be outnumbered on any move to snuff you out. We’d probably  
just have you shipped off somewhere where you could do the least harm."

 

Ethan considered this for a moment and wiped the sweat from his eyes.  
"Where should . . . where do you want me to start?" he stammered.

 

"How about the time Jenoff entered the equation?"

 

"Jenoff was already a client when Angel took over as CEO. The original   
plan was that Connor would enter the firm through the Foundation scholarship   
to make sure Angel wouldn’t renege on the contract. Jenoff approached me   
because he wanted revenge on Angel for something, I’m not too sure of the   
details. Well, to be honest, I’m not interested in the details."

 

"Get on with it," growled Spike. "We haven’t got all night."

 

"All right, put your bumps away. It’s ironic, really, you were the one   
who provided the opportunity for JennoffJenoff to exact his revenge."

 

Spike rumbled threateningly and took a pace forward. Gunn placed a restraining   
hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

 

"I knew exactly when the envelope containing the amulet would arrive and   
I inserted the clause about the Special Client into Angel’s contract to coincide  
with the precise moment your ghostly self materialised."

 

Gunn frowned. "You inserted the clause? How? It looks like the original  
contract to me. Angel’s signature is on it."

 

"Anything’s possible with magic," replied Ethan. "Without magic I couldn’t   
have carried out the final part of the plan. It was when Spike became corporeal   
that I got him and the right demon together."

 

"That night in the bar," said Spike softly. "I remember . . . "

 

\----------

 

"Tell me again why ’re we going to fight?" asked Spike groggily.

 

"For the hell of it." The demon was suddenly sober. "Can’t you feel it,  
the blood singing in your veins?"

 

Spike pushed his chair back and swayed up onto his feet. "Can’t say as   
I do. Not yet at any rate. Been out of ciruc . . . circlul . . . cirlcl …  
out of it for a while. Anywho, got no quarr’l with you. ‘cept you could prob’ly  
bore for England. And your taste in footy teams is woeful – Spurs!" he snorted  
derisively.

 

The demon watched closely as the drunken vampire clutched the edge of  
the table for support; knocking some of the many glasses he’d acquired in  
the past two hours onto the floor. _Time to step it up a gear_, he  
decided.

 

"I heard you’d gone all soft. Time was you didn’t need a reason for a  
good scrap. Heard you’d let some bint castrate you."

 

"Could if I wanted!" Spike exclaimed. "’snot like I can’t any more. Could  
knock you ‘to the middle of next week, one hand behind – thingy - back."   
Spike’s head snapped up. "Bint!" he roared. "_You _don’t get to call   
her that, you, you . . !"

 

Spike launched himself across the table at the demon and crashed into  
an empty chair. He lay, stunned for a moment, then got to his feet shaking  
broken glass and chair debris debris from his hair. He swung round unsteadily,   
morphing back into his human features as he did so.

 

"What? Where’d he go?" he asked searching the room with bloodshot eyes.

 

The demon beckoned him from a barstool next to the exit. "Missed! You  
really _are _off your game aren’t you?" he taunted.

 

Spike crossed the distance between them in a single leap, drawing his  
fist back as he did so and aiming it at the demon’s head.

 

"Ow! Hey! What d’you do that for?"

 

A man Spike had never seen before let fly with a series of blows that  
knocked him to the floor. As he watched from within a drink-induced haze,  
the room erupted into the kind of bar brawl usually reserved for old black  
and white cowboy movies on late night cable TV.

 

Spike pulled himself back to as close to an upright position as he could  
manage and searched the room again for the cause of the mayhem.

 

"Coo – eee," called a voice from behind him. "Looking for me?"

 

Spike glared over his shoulder and the demon responded by blowing him  
a kiss. Spike kicked himself into the air and spun sideways striking his  
tormentor with his foot as he did so. As he landed back on two feet, a broken  
bottle struck him on the back of the head, and he passed out.

 

\----------

 

The bar lights burned the back of Spike’s eyelids as he struggled back   
towards consciousness. He squinted and covered his eyes against the glare,   
groaning softly and rubbing the back of his head where the bottle had struck.

 

 

"Where is he? I’m gonna kill him when I . . ."

 

"You already did that," a voice whispered into his ear. "I’d hi-tail it  
out of here before the family arrives if I were you, vamp. Things are about  
to get ugly."

 

Spike looked up into the barman’s face. "What? Killed? I didn’t . . ."

 

The barman pointed at the demon’s body lying under the table beside where   
he’d fallen. Spike crawled forward.

 

"Neck’s broken," he murmured. "I don’t remember breaking his neck." He   
continued rubbing the back of his head and staggered to his feet.

 

The barman pushed a sheet of paper into Spike’s hands. "Give this to your   
Boss," he said.

 

"What is it?" asked Spike trying, unsuccessfully, to focus on the columns   
of small print.

 

"The bill for the damage."

 

The bar was wrecked; tables were overturned, the floor was covered in  
broken glass and awash with spilled alcohol. Several human customers lay  
bruised and unconscious amid the debris, while others wandered around dazed.  
A slight, dark-haired man slipped, unnoticed, through the shadows and out  
of the door.

 

\---------------

 

"It was _you_," said Spike. "You were the demon who started the fight.  
How’d you do it?"

 

"A simple glamour was all that was needed," replied Ethan. "One of my  
better works, I must admit, although I could never master the American accent."

 

"But, how did you arrange for Jennoff’s son to be there at precisely the   
right moment?" asked Gunn.

 

"You_ are_ losing the perks aren’t you?" Ethan sneered. "Haven’t  
you worked it out, either of you?"

 

Gunn and Spike stared at him blankly.

 

"Oh give me the challenge of Ripper any day, I’m dealing with cretins  
here."

 

Spike moved closer and pushed his face within inches of Ethan’s, changing  
into vamp face as he did so. "Well this cretin has had enough of your mind   
games for one night. Just tell us what you did."

 

"I didn’t do anything," whimpered Ethan. "Honestly. Except for playing   
the part of the demon, I had nothing to do with his killing. He was already   
dead when I followed you to the bar. The plan was flawless, right down to   
your MO on the body. All I had to do was provoke you into a fight and place   
the body in the most incriminating spot during the height of the melee. "

 

"And then stand back and enjoy the consequences of your little set up?"

 

"Well, that was the _one_ flaw. I never intended to fall into your  
hands. It’s a weakness of mine. I always stick around too long to gloat."

 

"Don’t know about you, Chuck, but this little trip down memory lane has  
made me peckish. Are you sure I can’t just have a little snack here before  
we report back to the gang?"

 

"Sorry, against the Boss Man’s orders," said Gunn. "Besides, you don’t   
want to spoil your appetite on something as unpalatable as this snake do   
you? We’ll just lock him up here for the time being. I’m sure Wes will come   
up with a more suitable long-term destination for him . . . eventually."

 

Spike grabbed Ethan by both arms and propelled him towards the closet.

 

"Eventually?" yelled Ethan. "You can’t just leave me here. You have no   
right to do that. I’m human."

 

Spike hurled him through the door and slammed it shut. "Should’ve thought  
about that before you signed on with the Senior Partners, mate," he shouted   
over Ethan’s screams of protest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

   
  
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	13. Breakfast with the Family

  
  
  


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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

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**Chapter  
13\. **Breakfast with the Family.

****

Angel switched on the coffee machine and turned towards  
Connor, his hands busy cracking eggs and beating them in a bowl. He As he  
stopped beating and reached for the pepper mill, his gaze lingered on the   
sleeping form of his son. Connor lay on his back on the second sofa in Spike's  
office, having given his place in the made-up bed to Lorne. His face was  
peaceful, a slight smile playing on the corner of his mouth, as though sharing  
a joke with an unseen other.

 

Angel reflected on Connor's reaction to regaining his memories wondered   
what the price was would be for having given him such a well-balanced personality.   
Whatever it is, it'll be worth it._ Perhaps this is what he would have  
been like if Holtz hadn't got his hands on him_. Angel gave the pepper  
mill a final twirl and resumed beating the eggs. As he turned back to the  
microwave, his eyes caught a slight movement from the armchair upon which  
Spike had spent the night.

 

Spike sat with his legs sprawled over the arm of the chair, his head thrown   
back against the headrest tossing from side to side and jerking occasionally  
as he murmured softly to himself. Angel strained to catch the coherent words  
from unconnected phrases, interspersed with groans, over the sound of the  
whisk on the bowl.

 

"Gotta do it . . . no, you don't, but thanks for saying it . . . better   
go, lamb . . . wanna see how it ends."

 

Angel stopped beating and sighed deeply. _And I wonder what **you**  
would have been like if I'd never got my hands on you._

 

The toaster popped up with a loud clatter and he flinched as two slightly   
charred pieces of toast launched themselves skywards. Angel's hands shot  
out in automatic response to their downward trajectory and he caught both  
pieces as they descended, throwing them onto the nearest plate and blowing  
on his fingers to relieve them.

 

Spike stirred in his chair and opened one eye. "When did you get to be  
so domesticated? Coffee last night, breakfast this morning . . . if my nose  
doesn't deceive." He grinned, sniggering at the sight of Angel nursing his  
fingers under his armpits.

 

"Trust you to have the toaster set to max, Spike. Everything you do is  
so . . ._ loud_."

 

"Told you, never do things by halves. Waste of effort. 'sides, I like burnt  
toast. It has that yummy charcoaly flavour."

 

"No you don't," said Angel crossly. "You just like the mess you make scraping  
the burnt bits off." Angel turned on the tap and held his fingers under  
the soothing stream of cold water.

 

"My, my, tetchy this morning, aren't we? Get out of bed the wrong side  
again? Sorry, forgot," Spike added hearing Angel's warning growl. "There  
isn't ever a right side for you is there, Mr Grouchy?" He threw his legs  
off the arm of the chair and pulled himself out of the depths of the leather  
upholstery. Stretching his arms over his head, he yawned loudly. "Not the  
most comfortable sleeping arrangements," he grumbled.

 

Angel turned off the tap and glared at him. "Why do you do that? You know  
you don't need to."

 

"What? Sleep? 'course I do," replied Spike. He rumpled his hair in an attempt   
to massage the back of his head and neck. "Not used to doing it in an almost  
upright position though."

 

"Not that. Why did you yawn just now? And breathing, you don't need to  
do that either but you do. It's annoying."

 

"Do I?" asked Spike, feeling his chest. "I'm not doing it now am I?"

 

"You breathe while you sleep," said Angel. "I've seen you."

 

Spike raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes wide. "Been watching me sleep  
now? Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

 

He walked towards the work surface and stepped close to Angel, looking  
up into his eyes from under his lashes. Angel took a step backwards and  
reached hastily for the bowl, opening the microwave door as he did so.

 

Before he could place the bowl inside, Spike checked the contents and gave  
him a small smile. "Mmmm, scrambled eggs, toast and coffee. We got any marmalade,  
Hon?" he asked, opening the fridge door and rummaging through the contents.

 

Angel glared at him. "This isn't for you. You don't need to eat. Just like  
you don't need to yawn, or breathe in your sleep." He punched the time and  
heat setting into the controls and pressed the start button.

 

"Then why did Wes set me up with all this stuff when he had the office  
kitted out – which by the way is my office, in case you'd forgotten." Spike  
slammed the fridge door shut and rifled through the cutlery drawer for a  
knife. He cut liberal chunks off the slab of butter he'd found in the fridge  
and started applying it to a piece of toast.

 

"Shhhh. Stop making so much noise," whispered Angel. "You'll wake the others."

 

Spike stopped his attack on the toast and looked at his grandsire. "Isn't   
that the whole point of making breakfast? For people who are awake? Not that  
you're a whiz in the kitchen," he went on before Angel had the chance to  
respond. "This butter's rock hard and the toast has gone cold. Put some more  
on. I like my butter melted in, not mortared on."

 

Angel glared at him and took two more slices of bread from the wrapper.   
"It's not like I'm used to working with such inferior facilities," he whined.   
"I can't cater for so many in this poky space, I had a full kitchen to work  
with back at the Hyperion."

 

Spike opened the microwave door just as it finished its final ping. "When  
you've done griping about my office, you gonna give this a stir before it  
goes all rubbery?" he asked, smirking slightly.

 

Angel snatched the bowl out of his hands and began beating the eggs vigorously.  
"When are you ever gonna quit riling me?" he snarled.

 

"Oh, let's see . . . never," grinned Spike. "And while we're on the subject  
of riling, when're you ever gonna stop invading my private stuff? It's always  
the same with you, innit? I get something of my own and you have to muscle  
in and take over." Spike perched himself on one of the stools in front of  
the breakfast bar and fixed Angel with a steely, ice-blue stare.

 

Angel turned his back on him and put the eggs back in the microwave and   
reset the timer. "I thought we were done with all that," he said quietly.

 

"No – _you_ were done with it. I'm still on the receiving end of it  
– again. This is my room. You're using my stuff without so much as a by-your-leave,   
like you owned it."

 

"I thought you knew where you stood now. No one forced you to stay. You   
chose to." Angel didn't trust himself to turn and face Spike while he fought   
down the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. _Ungrateful pup_, he  
thought bitterly.

 

"I did. And I am – choosing to stay," admitted Spike. "But I don't remember  
asking anyone over for a slumber party. You're not exactly my first choice  
in bedmates you know. Come to think of it ,it, you wouldn't even feature  
on the list, especially not after that whole watching me sleep thing," he  
grimaced.

 

"Is that so?" Angel snarled. "And just who would make the shortlist? Drusilla?  
Buffy?" Angel swung round and caught sight of the huge grin on Spike's face.   
"So, we're back to Buffy again?" Angel began buttering the fresh toast, concentrating  
on whirling the softening butter into little swirls and flattening them with  
the back of the knife, then cutting ridges into the toast and watching the  
creamy liquid disappear into the gaps made by the blade. "You _know   
_you're wasting your time._ I'm_ the one who's waiting for her  
to finish baking. I get to eat warm cookies – _me_, not you. Even if  
you are - _in her heart_ – whatever that means."

 

Spike guffawed. "God, you are so easy, you know that? I thought it'd take  
longer this time."

 

Angel looked up from his endeavours with the toast to see Spike and Connor   
shaking with laughter and giving one another a high five.

 

"We had a bet last night, 'bout how long it'd take to get you mad," explained  
Spike through snorts of laughter. He handed Connor a ten dollar note.

 

Angel's face dissolved into a sheepish, lopsided grin. "Heh," he laughed  
uneasily. "I guess Connor won?"

 

"Your face. You should see your face," giggled Connor. He pocketted the   
note and turned to Spike. "Is he always like this?"

 

"What? You mean like he's just eaten something he's having trouble getting   
down? More or less." Spike snorted with laughter again. "I think when they  
gave him his soul, they removed every funny bone in his body. I don't remember  
him laughing much after that. Not like he used to in the old days. You ever  
seen him have any fun?"

 

"Not so much. I remember there was a lot of scowling involved."

 

"And brooding. Don't forget the brooding," chuckled Spike wiping his eyes.   
Then, noticing Angel's crestfallen face, he added, "Aw, c'mon Big Guy. Don't  
take it to heart. It's not your fault. Loosen up a bit. Maybe your other-timely  
self is enjoying himself right now with some lovely little . . ."

 

"There is no other-timely self," said a voice from an armchair behind them.  
Gunn raised himself stiffly to his feet and shook each leg in turn. "Not  
the most comfortable night I've had since we came here," he added.

 

"No other self?" asked Angel anxiously. "Is this speculation or can you   
back it up?"

 

Gunn crossed the room to the breakfast bar and poured himself a mug of  
coffee. "I'd rather wait 'til everyone's here – and awake," he said, glancing  
at Lorne's still sleeping form. "before I explain. I think we're going to  
need both Wes and Fred to pull everything together to make sense of it."

 

Angel looked up at him in alarm. "Why? What's wrong with you?"

 

Gunn sank onto one of the stools and put his head between his hands. "I've   
lost it, Angel. All of it. The legal knowledge, the deductive reasoning.  
It's all gone and there's no way I can get it back. Without it . . . I'm  
nothing."

 

"Bollocks!" cried Spike. "You're still you, still Charles Gunn."

 

"What do_ you _know?" asked Gunn wearily.

 

Spike took Gunn by the shoulders and shook him. "You're asking that of  
someone who's been through more changes than Angel gets through jars of  
hair gel? Not to mention being fried crispier than this here burnt piece  
of toast. You're talking to an expert, Charlie Boy."

 

Gunn looked up at him and opened his mouth to protest, but before he had  
a chance to say anything, Spike crouched down on his haunches and looked   
directly into his eyes. "Stuff in your head? Stuff out of your head? Bin there,  
done that, got the sodding T-shirt and chip-inna-bottle souvenir. It's not  
what's in your brain that makes you you, Chuck, it's what's in _here_.   
He touched Gunn's chest. "And _here_." He touched his stomach. "In your   
heart and in your guts. It's what flows in your veins, keeping you fighting,   
making you do what you know is right. _That's _what makes you . . ."

 

"One of us," finished Angel.

 

Spike looked round. As he'd been speaking, a silence had descended in the   
room and Angel and Connor had moved closer. Spike stood up and flexed his  
knees waiting for the criticism from Angel that never came.

 

Angel's eyes were wide with surprise, his face softened by a look of admiration.  
"I always said you talked too much. But sometimes, what you say is actually  
worth listening to," he said softly.

 

"That was just like one of Dad's pep talks," said Connor grinning broadly.  
He turned to Angel. "I thought you were the serious one. Are you sure he   
doesn't have any of your genes tucked away in there somewhere?"

 

Spike snorted. "As if! I am _nothing _like Mr Broody Pants. Just because  
a bloke picks up some pointers from hanging around the good guys for a few  
years, doesn't mean he's signed up for . . ."

 

Spike's sentence was cut short by the sound of the office door opening,   
and Connor never did get find out which particular organisation Spike wasn't  
going to apply for membership of. The door swung back revealing a grim faced  
Wesley clutching a slim wallet folder in one hand and balancing a cardboard  
Starbucks' cup between his chin and the top of the file.

 

"Ah, fresh coffee," he sniffed appreciatively. "I can consign this dish   
water to the drain it so justly deserves." He said indicating the Starbucks'   
container. He deposited the file on Spike's desk and crossed the room to the  
coffee machine. "And scrambled eggs, too. What have we done to deserve an  
Angel special?" he asked, eyeing Spike's plate, grabbing a fork, and scooping   
a mouthful.

 

"Hey! Get your own," yelled Spike reaching over and snatching his plate   
out of Wesley's reach. "Is everyone moving in on my stuff now?"

 

"Well, I've eaten all I can," said Connor, rising from his seat. "So I  
guess I'd better make a move and head back to college. You got an excuse  
note for missing curfew last night?"

 

Angel stepped into his path and scrutinised his bruised face. "You've hardly   
had time to eat anything. And I'd rather you didn't go back until all this  
is sorted out. I got this strange feeling that we need to stay together  
until it's all over."

 

Connor looked at him and shrugged. "OK. I'll give college a ring and tell  
them I've gone home for a few days."

 

"I think that might be for the best. Last night's research does indicate   
that, we do need to stay together for what has to be done next," said Wesley   
suddenly grim faced again.

 

"Together," echoed Angel. "Where's Fred?" he asked, anxiously scanning  
the empty space behind Wesley.

 

"I presume she's having a late start. We worked into the early hours and   
she was exhausted. Security drove her home. Mmmm – good eggs," said Wesley   
pouring himself a cup of coffee and sampling some more from the bowl.

 

Spike looked up from his plate, which was piled high with toast buried  
beneath a mountain of scrambled egg. "What? You think she's just slept late  
with all that's been goin' on? Didn't you notice how upset she is by all  
this lost memories thing? Not to mention the duplicate time-line that can't  
possibly exist. My guess is she's too hyped to sleep."

 

Angel and Wesley exchanged concerned glances as Gunn reached for the phone  
and dialled Fred's number.

 

"No answer."

 

"Maybe she's already on her way in," suggested Wesley.

 

"That's her mobile number Charles just dialled," said Lorne, lifting his  
head from the pillow and shielding his eyes from the sunlight.

 

Spike frowned. "How'd you know that, Sleeping Beauty?"

 

"Dial tones are like music," replied Lorne.

 

"That so? Can you read if the phone's gonna be picked up? 'cos that would  
be nifty." Spike tilted his head and squinted at Lorne before piling more   
toast and eggs on his plate.

 

Wesley placed his cup on the counter and strode towards the door.

 

"Wes?" Angel called.

 

"I'm going to find her." He said as he turned the doorknob.

 

"No, Wes, we need you here," said Angel firmly. "Spike'll go."

 

"Can't I just finish . . . "

 

"No!" Angel swung his head towards Spike who was busy shovelling eggs into   
his mouth. "It's not like you need to eat that stuff, Spike. It's . . ."  
Angel struggled to find the right words. "Habit. That's all it is."

 

"But I like it," protested Spike. "Reminds me of when I was a kid."

 

Angel took the plate out of Spike's hands and shoved him towards the door.   
"Yeah? Well that was a long time ago, Sonny. Now, mind what Grandpa tells  
you. Get over it. Get gone. Get Fred. Got it?"

 

Spike opened the door and hesitated. "Hang on a mo'. Give me something  
to go on. Where might she have gone? And how the bloody hell am I supposed  
to get there in broad daylight?"

 

The others looked at one another for inspiration. Finally, Lorne spoke.   
"Fredle's been upset by what's happened hasn't she?"

 

Spike nodded.

 

Lorne sat up and swung his legs off the bed. He rubbed his eyes with his   
fists and yawned. "Um, Would you say she was a little unbalanced?" he asked   
choosing his words carefully.

 

Spike nodded again, his mouth full of the toast he'd snatched from the  
plate Angel had removed from him. "Mmmm. Don't . . ." he chewed rapidly  
and swallowed. "Don't tell me no one noticed?" he gazed at the others. Angel  
looked away, unable to meet his gaze. Wesley studied the bottom of his coffee  
cup and Connor looked bemused.

 

"Everyone too wrapped up in their own little problems to notice one of  
our own going over the edge?"

 

Lorne hung his head and murmured he'd been out of town most of the time.

 

Spike patted his shoulder. "Wasn't referring to you, Dean. Or you," he  
said over his shoulder to Connor. He glared at the others, his eyes flashing   
yellow with anger. "Bloody typical! Fred's been sliding backwards. She's fading  
away before your eyes. Didn't you hear what she said last night about handsome  
men saving her from monsters? What was all that about?"

 

"Wasn't referring to you, Dean. Or you," he said over his shoulder to Connor.  
He glared at the others, his eyes flashing yellow with anger. "Bloody typical!  
Fred's been sliding backwards. She's fading away before your eyes. Didn't  
you hear what she said last night about handsome men saving her from monsters?  
What was all that about?"

 

"Pylea," groaned Lorne. "She was talking about the time we got her out  
of Pylea."

 

"Of course," said Wesley. "Why didn't I see this before? She'd not just   
lost her memories of Connor, she's losing her memories of her time here."   
Wesley crossed the room and stood before Spike. "You'll find her in her old   
room upstairs in the Hyperion. Take the Viper and park in the alley at the   
back,. It's in shade at this time of the morning, so you shouldn't have any   
difficulty." Wesley glanced at Angel, his face tight with anxiety. "If she's   
reverted to the state she was in when she first arrived there, do you really   
think she'll come back with Spike?"

 

Angel thought for a second, looked at Spike who raised a querying eyebrow,   
and said, "Spike isn't part of her lost memories. And she trusts him,- for  
some unknown reason." He glanced again a Spike whose face creased in a huge  
grin.

 

"Knew my charm and sparkling wit'd come in handy one day, Peaches. Leave  
it to me. I'll have her back in the bosom in a jiffy."

 

"Spike!" Angel warned. "Take care. She's fragile. It won't take much to   
push her over and we'll lose her. And we can't lose her. Not Fred. Not after   
Cordy."

 

Spike studied his grandsire's face. "Don't worry, I learned my lesson with  
Dana," he said, sweeping from the room. "Despite what you thought, I learned  
my lesson."

   
  
---|---


	14. Monsters of Chaos

  
  
  


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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

____________________________________________________________

 

 

**Chapter   
14.**Monsters of Chaos.

****

The Hyperion was in darkness.

 

Angel had followed Spike down to the garage and given him the keys to  
the delivery entrance, together with instructions about how to find Fred’s  
room."Not like I need them," grumbled Spike to himself, as he pushed the  
heavy door open and listened to the protesting squeal of its rusty hinges.  
_I could track her anywhere, now. She ‘s giving off so many distress  
signals, it’s like the sinking of the bloody Titanic. _He switched on  
the security light and squinted through the dust-laden air, inhaling deeply.

 

“Yup! Door to the left, then up the main staircase,” he chanted, repeating   
the directions Angel had given him. As he passed through the inner lobby  
door, a slight noise from behind stopped him in his tracks. He reached backwards  
and yanked a figure out of the small alcove beside a second door.

 

“Oh, it’s you. What are you doing skulking around after me, young Frankenstein?”   
he asked, recognising the young man who worked in Fred’s lab.

 

“Following you to find Fred, ” replied Knox with a slight smile. “We need   
her.”

 

Spike frowned. “Yeah? And just who might we be?”

 

“Shhh – what’s that?” Knox jumped at the sound of a dull thump from above   
their heads.

 

“Stay here,” Spike ordered. “Anything comes down those stairs that isn’t   
me or Fred hit i. . .” Spike looked disparagingly at the young scientist.  
“Hide.”

 

Knox didn’t argue, but as Spike sprinted away up the stairs, scaling them   
in a few bounds, he crept up towards the source of the noise that had startled   
him. In the dark corridor, light from a single bare bulb streamed through   
an open door. Knox peered in cautiously and gasped at the sight of Fred,   
standing on a bed, scribbling furiously on the one remaining bare patch of   
wall in the room. The rest were covered with complicated mathematical formulae   
and diagrams.

 

Spike stood in the centre of the room, slowly turning and taking in the  
seemingly random marks on the walls. He approached Fred quietly and reached  
out and touched her elbow. ““Why didn't you work on this at your desk, Pet?  
There a paper shortage?”

 

Fred stopped scribbling and turned her head slightly. “Spike?” She frowned.  
“You think it would be easier at a desk? I haven’t room to breathe on a  
desk. I started with quantum mechanics there, but I need space . . . and  
time . . .” She waved a hand, gesturing the wall behind Spike. “It’s all  
about wave theory over there. And particle theory over here,” she indicated  
the wall beside the bed. “But I can’t find the QED,” she complained. She  
clambered down from the bed and stood gazing at a spot beside the dresser.  
“Particle theory is very neat, don’t you think?”

 

“Well, if you say so, Princess,” Spike raised an eyebrow and squinted  
at her. “I’ll take your word for it.”

 

“Yes, it is. All. Very. Nea . .” Fred rushed over to the other side of   
the room. “Except this part,” she showed Spike an equation, then grabbed   
his hand and dragged him to a corner beside the wardrobe. “Can you see this?   
Einstein. Relativity. It’s so beautiful. Perfect in fact. That’s the problem.”   
She stopped, suddenly aware of Knox’s presence in the room.

 

Knox walked over to the section she’d described and nodded. “You know,   
all this could be the answer we’re looking for,” he told her, smiling.

 

“I thought I told you to stay put,” Spike growled, swinging round and  
glaring at him.

 

Fred frowned at Knox in concentration. “You think so? I’ve been working  
on it for so long. You think it’s nearly time?”

 

“I think we’ve almost missed the time,” replied Knox, ignoring Spike’s   
glare.

 

“Time for what?” asked Spike looking at his watch. _When did I get a   
watch_? he wondered.

 

Fred pointed at a line of equations. “Here’s the spatial geometry of the  
de-Sitter universe, it’s Euclidean, so this, stands.” She indicated an equation  
beginning AB(sqroot(x2-x1)2. “But it’s two- dimensional, so, what happens  
when you take Lorentz’s transformations into account?” She scrawled on the  
wardrobe door. “You see, simple rotations of space-time axes, according  
to Miniwski, space and time are not separate, they’re a unitary entity –  
space-time.”

 

Spike squinted at her from under increasingly furrowed brows and gazed   
uncomprehendingly at what looked like a series of mesh ice-cream cones, joined  
at their points or bases.

 

“Take the straight world-line through them, joining events that correspond   
to the time line. Quantity T is equal to the difference in time – it’s the  
proper time between events, measured by the clock.” She grasped Spike’s  
wrist and looked at the watch, tapping its dial. “Proper time . . .” She  
trailed off and swung back towards the section of wall she’d been working  
on when Spike entered the room. “No, no! That’s not it.” She clambered back  
on the bed before Spike could stop her and began crossing out and replacing  
parts of her work.

 

Spike took her in his arms and gently pulled her away from the wall. “Fred,   
you’re knackered. Why don’t you come with me and get some rest. You can work  
on this later.”

 

“No. I have to keep going,” she protested. “There’s something I’m missing.   
The maths and physics don’t explain it all, that’s the problem. Minowski’s   
universe is a static one, in which all temporal cross sections are exactly   
similar to one another and all particles, considered as four dimensional   
objects, lie along parallel lines.”

 

“Well if the science doesn’t explain it, Pet . . .” Spike began pulling  
her gently from the bed.

 

“But it does, it must!” cried Fred. “Minowski’s model demonstrates the   
non static nature of the universe by the dissimilarity of temporal cross   
sections and the non parallelism of the world lines of particles.”

 

Spike looked around for Knox for an indication of how he might distract  
Fred’s concentration, but he had his back to them, studying a section of  
wall.

 

Fred scrutinised the wall in front of her. “If time advances up the manifold,   
this could be a new time direction, orthogonal to the old one. A fifth dimension   
– hypertime – of course, the de-Sitter Universe again.”

 

Fred glanced at Spike’s blank look of incomprehension and began scribbling   
on the wardrobe door again. “And once we have hypertime, the possibility   
of hyper-hypertime.”

 

Spike sighed. “Glad you’ve got all that sorted then. Shall we go now?”

 

“No! If I don’t finish this, I’ll forget. Just like I’m forgetting . .   
.” She stopped and looked shivered, looking wildly around the room. “Feigenbaum,   
he’s the master of chaos. He has the solution. Where is he?”

 

“Who?”

 

“Feigenbaum. He’s got to be around here somewhere. He has the answers  
\- the master of chaos. I never . . .” Fred looked at Spike and smiled. “Spike.   
What are you doing here?”

 

“Come to take you home, Princess. You need to get some rest. Everyone’s  
worried about you back at the ranch,” he said .

 

Fred gave a small laugh. “Back at the ranch. You’re not taking me to Texas,   
are you?”

 

Spike sat on the edge of the bed and patted the space beside him. “Sit   
down for a mo’. Get your breath back. Then we’ll take a quick spin across   
town to see some friends of ours who’re gonna help put everything to rights   
again. Meanwhile – you,” he jerked his head at Knox. “Got one of those mobile   
phones with you? Best give Angel a ring and let him know we found . . .”   
Spike stopped at the sight of Knox taking a camera out of a bag and filming   
Fred’s work. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” Spike sprang   
to his feet and grabbed Knox’s arm.

 

Knox lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s the only way   
we’ll get her to agree to some back with us,” he said. “If she knows we have  
her work on film.”

 

Spike turned to look at Fred. She’d climbed down from the bed and was  
waiting, silently, for Knox to finish filming each section.

 

“You will help me, won’t you?” she asked Knox quietly.

 

“Of course. It’s what I’ve been waiting for my whole life.” Knox smiled  
at Fred and took her hand in his. “Here, let Spike drive you back and I’ll  
follow when I’ve finished up here. I don’t want to miss anything.”

 

Fred glanced over her shoulder as Spike led her towards the door. “Please   
be careful,” she called. “You’re sure you won’t miss anything? It’s taken  
me so long.” As they made their way downstairs, she explained to Spike  
“It’s the only thing I’m sure of. Everything else is fading. I feel as if  
I’m fading.”

 

\--------------------

 

Fred’s face looked grey and drawn, large dark circles emphasising the  
hollows under her eyes. Spike looked at her with concern as she fastened  
her seatbelt.

 

“Are you ok?” he asked.

 

She straightened and stared out of the window, avoiding the question.  
“Where are we going?”

 

“Somewhere safe. Angel and Wes are working on a way to get us all back   
home safe.”

 

“Angel,” she murmured. "He was here, at the hotel, and then . . . And  
Wesley, and someone else. A woman.” She frowned and chewed the end of her  
hair in concentration. “Charles, his name is Charles.” Fred looked at Spike,  
wide-eyed. “But you weren’t there. You’re Spike. You’re a vampire – with  
a soul!” she finished triumphantly.

 

“That I am, love.” Spike sighed. “And I think I’m as in the dark as you  
seem to be about what the bloody hell is going on.” Spike stopped the car  
and turned to face her, serious, eyes searching hers for some assurance  
that the Fred he knew was still in there. “Are you sure you want to go back,   
Pet? ‘cos just say the word and we can take off and leave them to sort out   
all this quantum thingy mumbo jumbo. We could be in Europe, or somewhere   
else, far away from all this. Texas p’rhaps?”

 

Fred took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently. “I can’t,” she said   
simply. “All this quantum thingy mumbo jumbo is what I do. It’s what brought   
me to LA. And now, I’m needed.” She touched his cheek with her fingertip.   
“But thank you. That was a sweet offer.”

 

Spike brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “Sweet? Don’t  
think I’ve ever been called that before. And I’ve never been given the brush-off   
quite so graciously – or for quantum thingy mumbo jumbo, either,” he chuckled.   
He patted her hand and placed it back on her knee and switched on the ignition.   
“So, it’s back to the monsters of chaos. Wolfram and Hart it is.”

 

“Wolfram and Hart,” murmured Fred. “Did you know they were demons at the   
time of the Old Ones?” She stared into the distance. “The Wolf, the Ram,   
the Hart. They’ve changed the name of the server, you know. They’re in control   
of the computer system – and the interface for Wesley’s books. They’re the   
expert system of the demon world – wait – expert systems – Feigenbaum. That’s   
where I’ll find him.”

 

“In the computer?” asked Spike, frowning.

 

“No, silly, in my office. He’s a rabbit – with glasses,” she explained.

 

“Oh, a rabbit is the cause of all this chaos. That explains everything,”   
laughed Spike. “Anya was right all along.”

 

Fred looked at him in surprise. “Anya?”

 

“Ex-Vengeance demon I knew briefly, one of the Scoobies,” Spike explained.   
_Wonder if she made it out of the Hellmouth? Hope so, she deserved   
better than a grisly end or, god forbid, life with Harris_, he thought   
as he eased the Viper out of the alley into the traffic.

 

“What’s a Scooby?”

 

“You got a few years, or will the abridged version do?”

 

\-----------------------

 

Angel stood facing his office windows, his back towards the others, who  
waited patiently for his reaction to Wesley’s analysis of what had been  
discovered the previous night. He turned slowly and gazed at Connor, his  
eyes betraying a sadness that had been absent since Connor had regained  
his memories. “You know, Wes, how much I hate being driven by any prophecies  
you dig out of those books. Are you sure this one is to be trusted? I mean  
‘the son fighting alongside the father’ has a familiar ring to it.”

 

He grimaced and fixed Wesley with a worried look; one that was devoid  
of any accusation relating to Wesley’s actions with regard to a different  
prophecy.

 

Before Wesley could respond, the phone on Angel’s desk rang. Angel picked   
it up on the second ring. “What is it Harmony? Spike? Has he found . . ?   
Oh, she’s there with him. Well send them both . . . Why is he in a mood? Oh.  
Guess I forgot to mention . . .”

 

Angel replaced the receiver on its cradle. “Spike’s found Fred. He couldn’t  
find us. We did tell him we’d be changing offices, didn’t we?” Angel looked  
up from the phone to see four heads shaking their disagreement.

 

Wesley stood beside Angel’s desk and lifted a manuscript. “Getting back  
to business. It’s not just the prophecy,” he said softly. “There’s Lorne’s  
reading of Connor and Gunn’s painful audience with the entity in the White  
Room. They all point to the same conclusion.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“That we need more from Ethan if we’re to make any progress with the method   
by which we can return to our proper time.”

 

“Ah, yes, Ethan. Our little chaos-worshipper-in-residence. I think we’d  
better bring him back into the spotlight to sing for me,” said Lorne reaching  
for his mobile. “I’ll cancel all my appointments for the day. I’ll be ready  
when I’ve recharged the batteries with a couple of migraine pills and some  
strong coffee.”

 

Angel looked at him in alarm. “Are you sure you’re up to that, Lorne?  
Only, last night you said ...”

 

“I know what I said, last night, Angelcakes. But if we’re heading back   
to real time, it’s the least I can do to help speed us on our way down the  
Yellow Brick Road.”

 

The office door swung open. “Hope that doesn’t involve a repeat performance   
with Liz’s mighty necklace from yours truly,” said Spike, ushering Fred in.  
“’cos I’ve sworn off the sparklies for the duration.”

 

Wesley raised an eyebrow at him. “As usual, Spike, I haven’t the slightest   
idea what you’re talking about. But, no, the ritual I believe will be useful   
for getting us back doesn’t involve your wearing any jewellery, although   
there are crystals involved.”

 

Wesley gestured at Knox who had followed Spike and Fred into the room. “After  
Fred left us last night, Knox and I unearthed information about the Old  
One who plays a part in both Angel and Connor’s destinies; an Old One who  
should have appeared at Wolfram and Hart by now but hasn’t. Knox has provided  
some detailed information about her and unearthed a summoning spell that  
should help us.”

 

“Old Ones? Fred was talking about Old Ones on the way back.” said Spike.

 

Fred looked at him in alarm. “Was I? I keep forgetting.” She turned a  
complete circle, looking at each of them in turn.

 

“Have you remembered me, yet?” asked Connor, stepping towards her.

 

“Of course, you’re Connor. You’re a student at USC, doing your internship   
here,” replied Fred, smiling broadly at him.

 

“So, you don’t remember me from before?”

 

“Before? Before what?” Fred flinched and turned to Spike. “Was there a   
before?”

 

Wesley shook his head sadly and led her to the seating in the centre of  
the room. “Fred, why don’t you sit here for a while and I’ll explain everything   
to you when you’re rested.” He turned to Spike. “Spike, would you mind asking   
Harmony to bring some tea?”

 

Spike threw up his head and roared at the open door. “Harmony!”

 

Harmony popped her head around the doorframe. “You don’t have to yell,   
_Spike_. I can hear. Vampire hearing, remember?”

 

“Oh, ‘scuse me, Miss Touchy, I thought you were way down the corridor  
at your desk, where you’re s’posed to be, not listening at doorways,” Spike  
smirked at her.

 

“Yeah, well, I am Angel’s assistant. I came to – assist,” Harmony tossed   
her head at him.

 

“Yeah? Assist then. Get Fred some tea. “Camomile all right, princess?”

 

Fred nodded, wearily and turned her attention back to Connor. “Were you  
at the Hyperion, before all this?” she asked. “It’s just, there’s a woman  
who worked with us. But I can’t remember who she . . .”

 

“Cordelia,” replied Connor, quietly, moving across the room to sit beside   
her. “You don’t remember Cordy?”

 

Fred looked away from him towards Wesley and Angel who were standing side   
by side regarding her with concern. “Did she come here with us? Where is  
she?” she asked.

 

Connor took Fred’s hand in his. “Cordy’s dead.”

 

Fred looked at her hand in Connor’s. “Dead?” she whispered. “How? When?”

 

Angel moved closer and crouched beside her. “She was injured in a fight  
. . .” He stopped and looked at Connor, not wanting to re-live the painful  
moments that had led to Cordelia’s death and the deal with Wolfram and Hart.  
“And she went into a coma that she never came out of. She died a few weeks  
ago.”

 

A single tear rolled down Fred’s cheek. “She’s like a ghostly memory.  
I can see what I think is her face, but I can’t recall anything else.”

 

Angel walked back to his desk and picked up a picture frame and passed   
it to her.

 

“This is Cordelia,” she ran a finger over the image. “I know something   
about her is important, but what?”

 

“She died before I could tell her I loved her,” whispered Angel, taking  
the frame from Fred’s hands and arranging it carefully back in the exact  
spot from which he’d removed it earlier.

 

“She knew,” said Lorne. “And she knew that you knew she loved you.”

 

“If you’re gonna go into one of those Noel Coward, routines, I think I’m  
gonna puke,” said Spike, scathingly. “Shouldn’t we be getting on with the  
moving travelator of time instead of slipping back down memory lane?”

 

Harmony came in, carrying a tray of tea for Fred. She set it down on the   
low table in front of the sofa and turned to go. “Anything else I can do,   
Boss? Fetch anything? Anyone?”

 

“Good idea, Harmony,” replied Angel, tossing her a key. “Go unlock the   
mail room stationary closet.”

 

“You want stationary supplies? I’m not the paper person, I’m more of a   
people person.”

 

“It’s a peop . . . person I want you to bring to us. A slippery character,  
name of Ethan Rayne. He’s been locked in there all night, so he might want   
a bit of freshening before he gets here.”

 

“Right Boss, anything you say,” said Harmony brightly moving towards the   
door.

 

“Oh, and Harm,” Spike called after her. “You feel like a little snack,   
feel free to indulge..”

 

“Harmony, Don’t listen to Spike . Ethan is human, just not a very nice   
human. . . Oh ok,” said Angel off Spike’s querying glance, “I know I gave   
you permission to get information out of him any way you could, but that   
did not include biting him.”

 

“Well, guess I was wrong,” interjected Gunn. “I said it’d come down to   
a team vote about that.”

 

“Now I’m confused,” said Harmony, retracing her steps and coming back  
into the room. “Do I or do I not get to have a little taste?”

 

Five voices answered her, simultaneously.

 

“Yes.” said Spike grinning at Angel.

 

“No!” cried Angel glaring at him.

 

“No!” Wesley exclaimed, looking up in alarm from his seat beside Fred.

 

“No!” Lorne added his voice to the protests.

 

“Don’t look at me, I’m new to all this,” said a bewildered Connor, raising   
his hands in a gesture of surrender.

 

“Guess the nos have it,” Harmony reasoned, shrugging. “So, you just want   
him here, all fresh as a daisy and ready to – what?”

 

“Sing,” said Lorne. “And tell him I can provide Karaoke for almost anything   
he has in mind. But I’ll need notice of anything pre-1920s – or classical,”   
he added as an afterthought.

 

   
  
---|---


	15. Blood Brothers

  
  
  


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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

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**Chapter   
15.**Blood Brothers.

****

Wesley considered the page in front of him again then turned  
to the documents Knox had handed him earlier. He leaned back in his chair  
and sighed.

 

"I'm no wiser," he said, looking up at the ceiling. "The crystals are  
here, in this building, somewhere. Why?"

 

Spike pushed himself away from the wall he'd been sent to lean against   
to smoke endless cigarettes and stop him interrupting the others while they   
worked. "Does it matter? Let's go get 'em."

 

"It's not that simple, Spike," said Angel. "If Wes is right, these are   
linked to The Old One in some way. We have to be . . . "

 

"What? Careful? Take a look at what's happening Angel." Spike gestured   
at Fred who was rocking herself, clutching Feigenbaum. "_And_ we're   
another man down."

 

"Yes," said Wesley quietly. He didn't dare look at Fred. "Gunn_ was  
_rather upset, wasn't he?"

 

"Gone right over the edge, more like," replied Spike. "You using the interface   
thingy to reveal the contents of the file from the other time line?" Spike   
raised an eyebrow.

 

Angel looked at Spike. _On target – again_, he thought. _Can't  
have him upsetting Wes any more right now._ "OK. That's it. Go see if  
you can track down the crystals. Take Knox."

 

"What?" Spike appealed to Angel. "Oh. No! Andrew was bad enough!"

 

Angel pushed the door open and gave Spike a little shove. "Take your time,"  
he said smiling at Knox. "There's a lot more work to be done here. We'll   
be a lot faster without Spike cluttering the place up."

 

" I don't clutter," Spike protested.

 

Angel closed the door behind him.

 

\--------------------------

 

As they passed through the lobby, Spike spotted Gunn emerging from his office.  
His smart business suit, the badge of the successful lawyer, had been discarded  
in favour of a grey sweatshirt and jogging pants. Gunn looked completely  
drained, his head lowered, eyes refusing to meet those of Wolfram and Hart's  
busy employees who were going about their daily business as if he didn't  
exist.

 

Harmony's chirpy voice carried down the corridor from the reception desk   
where she was deep in conversation on the phone. "I'm sorry, Angel is in   
conference at the moment, Mr Jenoff. . . . How long? . . . For the foreseeable   
future. I could pencil you in for sometime next week . . ."

 

A group of lawyers emerged from the elevator.

 

" A deferral. Something about new evidence," said a slight young man carrying   
a sheaf of papers.

 

"Clutching at straws more like," replied his companion. "Jenoff isn't  
going to wait much longer before he takes direct action."

 

"I heard our golden boy lawyer is beginning to lose it. Happens to them  
all sooner or . . ." he stopped as he spotted Gunn walking towards them.

 

A demon with a mobile phone pressed to his ear pushed past Gunn who suddenly   
slumped onto the bottom step of the main staircase. "Sorry," muttered Gunn.   
"Sorry." He put his head in his hands and groaned.

 

Spike motioned Knox to continue on. He joined Gunn and the two of them  
sat silently side by side on the bottom step of the main staircase in the  
reception area. Gunn clasped his hands together and studied a point on the  
floor in front of them, while Spike watched the to-ings and fro-ings of  
Wolfram and Hart personnel going about their daily business.

 

"So how come it's just me and you out here twiddlin' our thumbs with nothin'   
to do, then, Chuck?" asked Spike.

 

"Guess it's because there's all that book work going on in Wes's office,"   
replied Gunn glumly without looking up from the floor.

 

"Well, yeah, I can see how that rules me out, but not you. You could still   
be in there, puttin' in your twopence worth," said Spike.

 

"After Wes worked out that the second file on Connor wasn't blank after  
all, I kinda lost it again, you know? All he had to do was put the damn  
thing through that interface of his and suddenly – wham – there it was.  
Why couldn't I have thought of that?"

 

"You may not be firing on all cylinders," agreed Spike, "but then, neither's   
Fred."

 

"True," replied Gunn looking with concern down the corridor towards Wes'  
office. "She's phasing in and out a lot more isn't she?"

 

"Like a bloody telly that's not quite on station. And there's not a soddin'  
thing we can do about it. Can't give her a good thump now, can we?"

 

"Wes thinks the best thing we can do for her is let her rest. That's why  
Lorne's switching duties. He's gonna look after her in Angel's office, using  
it as his base for the time being. Seems the show must go on," replied Gunn  
bitterly. "While I've nothing to do except stare at that pile of paperwork  
in my office that's – piling up," he finished lamely.

 

Spike looked at him and thought for a moment. "I look at it this way,  
Charlie, I'm here, things need doing – important things. So I'm not gonna  
waste my time whinging about not being over in Europe, sunning myself, in  
Buffy's presence and fighting the good fight in la Bella Roma. At least there  
I'd get a shot of saving the girl every now and then."

 

Gunn shot him a small smile. "Angel keeping you on a tight rein still?"

 

"Too bloody right. And he knows I'm not one for much book research either.  
Leave all that to the Head Boy and His Mighty Broody self. S'pose as soon   
as they're finished, they'll fill us in with what we do next. Meantime, why  
don't you and I go and get a spot of action? I'm itchin' to do something.   
All this sittin' about's getting on my wick."

 

"I can't even get past the first sentence on any page in that pile in  
my office without using a dictionary, Spike. What do you suggest? I go and  
give it a good beating against the wall?"

 

Spike snorted. "You're not giving up that easily, Chuck. As it happens,  
I've got an assignment. Some crystals need finding. Can't guarantee they  
come with the girl."

 

"The summoning crystals?"

 

"That's the ones. Science Boy Lad's gone on ahead. Seems he knows a fella."

 

\------------------------

 

Knox looked up from the microscope. "What took you?" he asked as Spike squinted  
over his shoulder at down through the eyepiece.

 

"Just stopped off for some back-up," said Spike. "What is this?"

 

"Nothing that need concern you," said a voice from behind him.

 

Spike whirled around at the sound of a slight gasp from Gunn.

 

"You! You promised," Gunn spat at the man who'd emerged from the inner-office   
door behind Spike.

 

"I told you, Mr Gunn. You have nothing to trade. The implant wasn't permanent."   
The scientist smiled, revealing an overly full set of teeth.

 

Gunn grasped the scientist's throat. "That wasn't made clear," he snarled.

 

"My, my, someone else who didn't read the small print carefully enough.  
And you a lawyer. You should know better."

 

"You two know each other?" asked Spike, pushing them apart.

 

Gunn backed away and leaned against the workbench. "This is the slimeball  
who gave me the implants – all the knowledge – the deductive reasoning."

 

"As I said, Mr . . .?" The scientist looked at Spike, who ignored his  
outstretched hand. "What Mr Gunn failed to realise was that those skills  
came with a price attached."

 

Spike sighed. _Doesn't everything always_?

 

"I knew that," said Gunn. "Hire not buy." He gave a hollow laugh and appealed   
to Spike. "Did we really think we could work from inside the belly of the   
Beast? We all gained something coming here."

 

"'Cept me. I didn't get squat – unless you count this sodding watch."  
He held it to his ear and then shook it. "Doesn't even tick," he grumbled,   
peering at it. "Time was watches let you know what they were up to."

 

"Time is not on our side," Knox reminded them. "We're here on a mission,   
not to help Gunn with his - _problem_." He sneered at Gunn who squared   
up to him, towering above his slight form.

 

Spike shook his head. "Now's not the time, Chuck. We came here for the   
crystals."

 

Gunn relaxed slightly and moved away from Knox, who breathed a small sigh   
of relief. "Yes, the crystals. We know where they are," he said smugly.

 

"We?" Spike asked.

 

"The Doctor and I share an interest in the Old Ones. He's an expert in   
the magical peripherals connected with burial and resurrection rights. Wolfram   
and Hart has a whole archive devoted to . . ."

 

"An archive?" asked Gunn. "Why didn't you tell Wesley earlier?"

 

"Because . . ." Knox groped for a reasonable excuse.

 

"Because he didn't know about it," concluded the Doctor. "I've only just   
told him."

 

Spike's eyes narrowed and he tilted his head to consider the two scientists.  
There was something about their interest in the Old Ones that made him  
uneasy but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. Something Knox  
had said earlier when they were with Fred in the Hyperion. He shook himself.   
_Focus. Here for the crystals._

 

"So, how do we get them out of the archives?" Gunn broke the silence that   
had greeted the Doctor's words. "You got the password?" he asked Knox.

 

Knox paled. "Not exactly," he gulped. "There's a guardian – that must  
be challenged – you'll need weapons."

 

Spike sighed again. "Lead the way, Lad."

 

"Oh, we're not coming," said the Doctor, smiling again. "We're men of  
science. We leave the fighting to you hero-warrior types."

 

Spike growled softly.

 

"Just tell us what we need and where to go," said Gunn resignedly. He  
turned to Spike. "At least we know what we're doing with a fight, right?"

 

\------------------------

 

The corridor security lights glowed dimly as Spike and Gunn made their way  
wearily back to Wesley's office. Both men were bruised and battered and  
covered in a sticky green sludge.

 

"Slime. I hate slime. Why'd it have to be slime?" grumbled Spike.

 

"Aw, c'mon, Bro'. Don't tell me you didn't enjoy that little tussle?"  
beamed Gunn slapping him on the shoulder. "Give me a Kelubar  to fight   
and I can forget all about . . ." His voice trailed off suddenly. " . . .  
For a while."

 

"Yeah. OK. 'S'pose it was fun. I just don't want Brood Boy whinging on  
about the state we're getting' the floors in." Spike stopped and considered  
the closed door. "How long they been in there? D'you think they've finished?"

 

The door to Wesley's office opened and Angel came out, calling across  
the corridor to them. "You got them?"

 

Spike held up a small canvas pouch and nodded, bracing himself for complaints   
about the slime.

 

Angel swept past without looking at them. "We're ready then. De-briefing.   
More work to do. My office, in five."

 

"Better not be reconnaissance again," Spike grumbled softly.

 

"You think we got time for a shower?" asked Gunn wiping a glob of slime  
from his sweatshirt.

 

"Prob'ly not," replied Spike looking down at his own clothes. "Better  
change though. Least I didn't wear the duster. Slime's a bugger to get  
out of the leather."

 

\-------------------------------

 

"No! Not Connor. I'm not losing him again!" Angel rose from his seat and   
strode over to the window where Connor stood gazing at the LA night skyline.

 

"You haven't been listening, have you Gramps? The summoning spell needs  
family blood. It doesn't have to be Connor's, mine'll do. That right Wes?"  
asked Spike, joining Angel and Connor.

 

"I hadn't quite finished what I was saying," replied Wesley. "Blood will   
flow in both time lines. In this one, to restore us back to our proper place   
in time. In that one, to fulfil our destinies. Blood must flow." Wesley looked  
up from his papers and across at Spike, then at the others who'd gathered  
in the Angel's office to hear the results of the previous night's research  
and the day's work with Angel and Connor. "Family blood, the blood of kinship,  
clan and brotherhood, willingly shed. But it must be the blood of an Innocent."

 

"Guess that rules me out then," said Spike.

 

"And me."

 

All eyes turned to Connor in surprise.

 

"I got my memories back, remember?" he said quietly, his eyes fixed on   
Angel.

 

"Connor is perfectly correct. It isn't him," said Wesley. "It's . . ."

 

"It's Fred, isn't it?" finished Gunn. "She's the only one who didn't get   
anything personal out of coming here."

 

"I believe so," replied Wesley, his face softening as he looked over to  
where she lay sleeping fitfully on the couch. "She's the only one who remained   
innocent of any knowledge of Connor's earlier life. And, as Gunn so rightly   
pointed out, she's the only one who didn't benefit personally from our coming   
to Wolfram and Hart. She remained faithful to the mission. She came here   
to help others – starting with Cordelia."

 

"No! Not Fred!" cried Lorne.

 

"I'm not losing another member of this family - not after Cordy," Angel  
added solemnly.

 

"We won't lose her," said Wesley. "The Summoning requires only a drop  
of her blood."

 

Spike frowned. "Sounds too easy. Spell like this, there's gotta be a bigger   
price."

 

"Spike's right. Even if we do summon this Old One, are you certain she   
can help us?" Angel returned to the desk and looked at the book Wesley had   
opened.

 

"I believe so, if what Knox has unearthed about her proves accurate. She   
has the power to alter time and to move through dimensions," replied Wesley.

 

"Can – but why would she?"

 

"Because by restoring us to our proper place in time, she guarantees her   
own existence," explained Wesley patiently. "According to the prophecy, our  
destiny is fulfilled when the Old One arises. Her destiny is linked to ours."

 

"And there's no sign of her in this time line," said Gunn.

 

"Correct. Connor should not have arrived at Wolfram and Hart until after   
the Old One." Wesley picked up the book Angel was studying and opened it   
at an illustration showing a multi-armed creature. "This is the Old One, Illyria.  
She was killed millions of years ago and placed in a sarcophagus in the  
Deeper Well. Knox's research indicates that she planned her resurrection   
and return to her kingdom through the Temple of Valahanash."

 

Spike looked closely at the illustration. "She's a cutie isn't she? A  
right little Kali. Think we'd've noticed _her_ by the photocopier."

 

Angel leaned on the desk and thought for a moment. He looked over to where  
Lorne sat on the edge of Fred's couch. "OK, so the summoning won't harm  
Fred, but Lorne will get hurt again if he reads Ethan. Why does he need to  
do that?"

 

Wesley sighed deeply. "Believe me, Angel, if there were an easier way,   
I wouldn't ask him to do it. Illyria may be the key to our return, but we   
need to know the precise moment that Ethan's actions interfered with your   
destiny."

 

"Hang on," interrupted Spike. "Why do we need to go down the wormhole  
of time with this Illyria bint at all? Once she's unpacked her bags and  
settled in, who's to say everybody can't fulfil their destinies here?"

 

Wesley looked across at Fred who appeared to be sleeping more peacefully.

 

Spike followed his gaze and gave a slight nod. "Right. Fred."

 

"We would lose her if we stayed here, I'm sure of it," said Wesley gravely.

 

Spike furrowed his brows. "So we need to take the time trip with the Old   
One. Still doesn't explain why Lorne has to read Ethan. We could get the  
info we need as easy as anything. Just leave him with Harmony a couple o'  
more hours, he'll be beggin' to tell us."

 

"You wouldn't get the double feature, Slim," said Lorne. As long as there   
are two time lines, I'm reading two futures."

 

"Which is theoretically impossible," said Fred, sitting up suddenly.

 

"Only as much as the Old One is," agreed Wesley, moving swiftly to her   
side.

 

"I thought you were supposed to be catching up on some sleep, not dealing   
with theories," said Angel squatting down beside her.

 

"I don't want to sleep. I keep having nightmares," said Fred, shakily,   
getting to her feet. She shivered and looked up at the five anxious faces   
gathered around the couch. "What's wrong? I'm not sick, am I?" she appealed   
to Wesley.

 

"No, you're not," he said gently. "But the sooner we get you back to where   
we all belong, the better."

 

"What else do we need? " asked Angel.

 

"When we're sure we're ready, Knox will bring what we need for the Summoning  
to the Training Room. Everyone else can watch from the viewing gallery.

 

"Good idea. Who do you need?"

 

"Knox for one. His knowledge of Illyria is far superior to mine. He had  
no trouble finding what we wanted last night when he helped me finish the  
research after Fred left. It was evident that he's been interested in the  
Old Ones, and Illyria in particular, for some time. "

 

"A long time, I'd say," said Gunn. "He knew all about the crystals."

 

Wesley consulted his papers again. "Ethan should be there, I think. Illyria  
must see him, so that she can identify who it is she must eliminate. And   
Fred," Wesley looked up and stared directly into her eyes, "the spell calls   
for innocent blood, willingly shed. I believe it's yours that's needed."

 

Fred moved closer to him. She clutched his arm. "Do you really think so?   
How much do you need?"

 

"Not a lot. I need only a drop - just a pin-prick really."

 

"Like Sleeping Beauty," said Spike smiling at her.

 

"Then the handsome prince will save me again,"

 

whispered Fred gazing into Wesley's eyes.

 

"Yes," he said softly. "And wake you with a kiss."

 

"Oh," said Spike breathing in suddenly._ So that's who I got the brush-off   
for._

 

Angel cleared his throat noisily. "Wes, before all that, what about Ethan?  
Harmony has him in the small reception room, fed and watered and ready  
to perform."

 

"Then I guess I'm up first," grimaced Lorne. He took a deep breath and   
walked slowly to the door. "I suppose it could be worse," he said between   
gritted teeth.

 

"How's that?" asked Spike.

 

He's doing 'Strange Brew'. It could have been 'Tales of Brave Ulysses'."

 

Spike grinned and raised an eyebrow. "Never knew he and Giles had so much   
in common."

 

"Spike!" Angel called, "Go with Lorne. Make sure Ethan's behaving himself.   
We're gonna have to . . ." he motioned towards Fred with his head.

 

Spike and Lorne looked to where Wesley sat holding Fred who was sleeping  
again, her head resting on his chest. Spike nodded and followed Lorne out  
of the door, closing it quietly behind them.

 

 

 

 

 

   
  
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	16. Future Imperfect

  
  
  


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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

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**Chapter  
16.**Future Imperfect.

****

****Lorne stopped outside the door of the reception room and  
turned to Spike. "I need a drink," he said wearily.

 

"You and me both," replied Spike, his hand on the doorknob.

 

"You don't _need _a drink," replied Lorne.

 

Spike tilted his head slightly and gave the green demon a questioning look.  
"What's up?" He dropped his hand from the door.

 

Lorne sighed and slumped against the wall. "Guess I'm just sick of being  
the guy who tells people what they want to hear." He looked Spike in the   
eyes. "Did you see Charles' face when Wes picked up Fred?"

 

"You mean Gunn and Fred . . .?"

 

"For a while." Lorne pulled himself upright. "Poor Charles. Lost his powers.   
Lost his girl." He turned the doorknob and entered the room.

 

"Tell me about it," muttered Spike following him.

 

\----------------------------------------

\---

 

Spike strode over to where Ethan sat sipping what looked like a Bloody  
Mary from a large tumbler. "Harm been keeping you entertained has she?"

 

Ethan looked up from the album cover he'd been studying. "She's tried her   
best, I'm sure. But my tastes run to something a little hotter-bloodied.  
Though there is the compensation of her somewhat ample attributes that a  
less ethical person might allow cloud his judgement." He cast an appreciative  
eye over Harmony's rear end, as she bent to replace a discarded album in  
the box on the floor.

 

"Gotta agree with you on that one, mate," said Spike tilting his head for  
a better view. "Pity the packaging doesn't house something a little less   
annoying under the bonnet." Spike peered into a box lying on the table beside   
Ethan. Where'd you find this stuff, Harm? You been to a museum?"

 

Harmony flashed him a brilliant smile. "Didn't need to Spike, the music   
archives here give whatever you want just at the flick of a mouse. But then   
you wouldn't know anything about that, would you,_ Mr Technologically Challenged_?"

 

Spike ignored the gibe. "Flick of a button eh? Really? That where you got  
all the stuff for my office? Can I get it on the original vinyl like these?   
Mine had a bit of an accident."

 

Harmony threw him a disgusted look and opened her mouth to respond.

 

Lorne seated himself in a chair beside the platform and coughed loudly.   
"Um, do you think we could skip the golden-oldies discussion before it starts?  
Let's get this over with."

 

Ethan looked at him over the rim of his glass? "Over with? What exactly   
are you going to do?"

 

The doors swung open revealing Angel and Connor side by side. They held   
back the double doors for Fred who shuffled slowly into the room supported   
by Wesley on one side and Gunn on the other.

 

"What did you think you were going to do here, Ethan? Play us your favourite   
tracks and have a few drinks before we let you go?" Angel snarled.

 

"Well, yes, it did cross my mind that might be the best course of action,   
after the way you treated me last night." Ethan shifted uneasily under Angel's  
glare.

 

"Which part of your twisted mind reckons we owe you anything?" growled  
Spike threateningly. "It's you owes us, chum."

 

Angel closed the doors and watched as Gunn and Wesley helped Fred to a  
seat at a table behind Lorne. As he walked slowly towards Ethan, Angel's  
eyes never left the Mage's face. "OK," he said when everyone was seated.  
"I'll tell you what's going to happen next. You're going to sing for Lorne.  
And he's going to read you. He's good at what he does, so he's going to  
find out exactly what you did and when you did it. And don't even think of  
refusing to sing, because that road leads back to the stationary closet,  
and this time I throw away the key."

 

There was a moment's silence before Angel and Spike suddenly swung their   
attention to Fred, alarmed by the scent of her increasing distress. She sat   
hugging her knees and rocking herself slowly, all the time focussing her gaze  
on Wesley's face. "I shouldn't be here. I should be in the lab working. It's  
what I do," she murmured to him.

 

"Shhh," Wesley whispered. "Hold on a little while longer. We're doing everything  
we can." He took hold of her hands and stopped her rocking.

 

Fred stiffened and pulled her hands from his grasp. "I am _not _the  
damsel in distress, here. I have to work this. Something could have been  
missed."

 

Wesley's face crumpled with pain as he watched her try to pull herself  
together. "Wait a little," he said softly. "You can help me with the Summoning.  
But you need to be strong. Lean on me." He gathered her in his arms and  
carried her to a low armchair where he sat stroking her hair, her head resting  
on his chest.

 

Ethan fidgeted nervously on his barstool. "I didn't realise I'd have an   
audience," he said sulkily.

 

"What's the matter, Ethan? Worried you'll forget your lines? They're right  
in front of you." Angel glared and gestured at the monitor on the table  
beside Ethan's barstool.

 

"And cue music," said Lorne.

 

The sound system burst into life with the opening riff of the lead guitar.   
Ethan closed his eyes, held the microphone to his lips and began.

 

_Strange Brew, kill what's inside of you._

_ She's a witch of trouble in electric blue,_

_ In her own mad mind she's in love with you,_

_ With you. Now what you gonna do?_

_ Strange brew, kill what's inside of you?_

 

Lorne sat forward in his chair, his face rigid with concentration and streaming  
with perspiration, his breath laboured and rapid. He took a gulp of water  
from the glass on the table beside him and mopped his brow.

 

"Anything?" Angel asked anxiously.

 

"Plenty," gasped Lorne. "This future - no Eve." He gave a hollow laugh.   
"Congratulations Ethan, promotion and immortality."

 

Ethan opened his eyes and grinned. "_Immortality_? Now that's what   
I call a decent sala. . ."

 

"I got nothing we're looking for, yet," interrupted Lorne. He studied his   
hands, which were shaking violently. "Next verse," he croaked.

 

"If you insist," Ethan shrugged and closed his eyes again.

 

_She's some kind of demon messing in the pooh,_

_ If you don't watch out it'll stick to you, to you,_

_ What kind of fool are you?_

_ Strange brew, kill what's inside of you._

 

Lorne's head snapped round towards Fred, his eyes wide with horror. He  
closed them against the images crowding his brain. Fred, leather clad, blue  
skinned moving in a blur, dragging Knox past the others who moved in slow  
motion. Spike exploding into dust revealing a blue-haired Fred with a stake  
in her hand. "No! No, No!" screamed Lorne clutching his head.

 

Angel made a throat-cutting motion to Harmony who switched off the karaoke  
machine.

 

"_On a boat in the middle of a ragin' ._ . . What? I wasn't _that_   
bad, surely?" asked Ethan opening his eyes. "I had quite a following in my  
day. Giles and I could have gone right to the top if we hadn't had that little  
disagreement about musical integrity. I am deeply wounded by the implied  
criticism of your screams."

 

"You'll be deeply wounded by more than that if you don't shut it," snapped  
Spike.

 

Gunn knelt down beside Lorne. "Lorne? What is it? What did you see?"

 

Lorne opened his eyes and looked at him, unable to speak. He motioned at  
the empty glass and Gunn hastily poured some more water and handed it to   
him. Lorne took a deep breath and slowly drank the contents of the glass.   
He rose to his feet and took some more deep breaths, looking at each of the   
others in turn but carefully avoiding Fred. "Ok," he said, finally. "I got   
the two futures. And here's the thing. In the one we're interested in, he's   
not here."

 

"Not here," cried Ethan, springing to his feet. "You don't mean I'm . .   
. " Harmony pushed him back onto the stool.

 

"I mean not here in LA," replied Lorne icily. "You're where you should  
have stayed, in Cleveland."

 

Angel studied Lorne's face. "What about the rest, Lorne? What else did  
you see?"

 

"Too much, way too much," groaned Lorne.

 

Wesley lifted Fred onto another chair and moved to Lorne's side. "Lorne,   
please. Did you see anything that will help us with Illyria?"

 

"Illyria!" Lorne choked back a sob and sank back into his chair.

 

"Did you see her? What's she like, all arms and blood and terminal ugliness?"  
asked Spike.

 

Lorne ran a hand across his eyes. "No, she's not, she's . . ."

 

"Don't let them take me!" cried Fred suddenly, springing to her feet and  
looking round her wildly.

 

Gunn caught her in his arms as she collapsed.

 

"Lorne!" cried Wesley, rushing to Fred's side. " For pity's sake, tell  
us, we don't have much time left."

 

Lorne looked at Gunn as he carefully laid Fred down on the floor. Wesley   
knelt beside her and placed a cushion under her head and checked her breathing.

 

"It . . . it was a blur," stammered Lorne. "I'm not sure what I saw."

 

"Give it your best shot, mate. That's all we ask," said Spike patting his  
shoulder.

 

Lorne took another deep breath. "Illyria has to go back to kill Ethan,"   
he whispered. "If she kills him before he has a chance to do the deal with   
the Jenoff, before Spike recorporealises . . . That's what she has to do in  
this time line to . . ." He stopped and looked again at Gunn. "But I saw .  
. . I thought I saw . . . but it couldn't be . . . she couldn't . . .

 

Angel's hand shot out suddenly and grasped Ethan who had left his seat  
and was creeping quietly along the wall towards the door. He shoved him  
into a chair. "Sit! And stay!" he ordered. "Or I'll have Harmony chain you  
up somewhere not very nice."

 

Lorne got up and walked slowly towards the door, glancing at Gunn once  
again before opening it. "I'm sorry, Angelcakes," he said. "That's all I  
can give you. I got nothin' else I can't . . ." He walked out into the corridor  
closing the door quietly behind him.

 

"Lorne!" Wesley called after him.

 

"If he's doubting himself, he won't be any good to us," said Spike looking  
at the door.

 

"Spike's right," said Angel. "Let him go. We've got what we need. We shouldn't  
push him for any more."

 

"At least he didn't have the nose bleeds and migraine. I suppose we should   
be grateful for small mercies," agreed Wesley. He looked down at Fred who  
moaned slightly and opened her eyes.

 

"Is it today?" she asked sitting up.

 

"Yes. You only slept for a few minutes," replied Wesley helping her to  
her feet.

 

"What was I doing sleeping on the floor?" said Fred gazing round the room  
at the karaoke set-up.

 

"Ethan's singing put you to sleep, Pet," said Spike smiling slightly. "That's  
how bad he was."

 

"And now, we're going to start the real work of the night. Harmony, kit   
out the guest suite for whatever this creep wants for his final hours in   
this alternate reality," Angel called over his shoulder. He strode towards   
the doors dragging a protesting Ethan with him. "Come on people, let's get   
cracking."

 

"_Get cracking,_" said Fred mockingly. "He's such an old fogey." She  
smiled at Wesley and took the arm he offered as they followed Angel into  
the corridor.

 

\----------------------------------------------

 

The office was eerily quiet. Angel sat at his desk contemplating the events   
of the past weeks. Connor was back in his life. A new Connor, but still his  
son. He looked across the room to where Spike, Connor, Wesley and Gunn sat  
in silence. Connor seemed to be dozing, his head lolled back against the  
headrest, his breathing even and shallow. Wesley's face was grey, his clothes  
dishevelled and dusty. He hadn't shaved in days and looked as is he hadn't  
slept much either, his eyelids puffy and hooded. Gunn didn't move, his gaze  
fixed somewhere beyond the window in the dark night sky.

 

The stillness was broken by Spike tapping his fingers on the arm of the   
chair. He fidgetted and patted his pockets, searching for his cigarettes.

 

"Don't even think of it, Spike," snapped Angel. "Go outside if you want   
to . . ."

 

"Aw, c'mon, Peaches, I need to do _something_, Spike protested. "What're  
we doing sittin' around? What happened to _get cracking_?"

 

"It is the middle of the night," Wesley reminded him. "Fred's sleeping.   
She'll need all her strength to get through the Summoning."

 

"I thought you said you needed just a drop of blood," asked Connor, opening  
his eyes.

 

"She'll need her strength for the spiritual strain she'll have to endure,"   
replied Wesley patiently. "The Summoning is a powerful spell."

 

Angel stood up and stretched his legs. "Are you really sure we have to  
go through with this Wes?" he asked. "Lorne saw something that has him badly  
freaked."

 

"I'm sure Fred won't survive if we don't," Wesley replied. "We'll lose  
her. And I can't, Angel, not now. I've only just . . ."

 

"We're not gonna lose her," said Spike emphatically. "Not this girl, not  
this day."

 

Angel turned to look at him questioningly.

 

"It's what we do – save the girl," said Spike.

 

"It's what we _used_ to do," murmurred Angel looking at his son. "Once  
upon a time."  
  
---|---


	17. Family Matters

  
  
  


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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

____________________________________________________________

 

 

**Chapter   
17.**Family Matters.

****

****The room was empty, abandoned after the call from Lorne saying  
that Fred was awake and feeling better. The grey light of dawn filtered through  
the blinds casting mote laden beams onto the floor. The conference table  
was strewn with the books and papers of the previous days' work. In a corner,  
Spike's ashtray overflowed onto the carpet, evidence of his attempts to curb  
his impatience. Empty coffee cups littered Angel's desk. Outside, the corridor  
was alive with noise and movement.

 

"You're sure about this Wes? This Summoning's a mighty powerful spell." Gunn  
echoed Angel's concerns of the previous night.

 

"Yeah, Perce. You're messin' with forces we don't understand," agreed Spike.  
"Well _I_ don't," he said, off Angel's warning look. "Don't tell me  
you do?"

 

"I don't have time for this," Angel said. "C'mon. Let's go to work." The  
two vampires swept through the corridors, Spike's duster billowing behind  
him as they headed towards the training room. Connor sprinted after them  
his hastily drained cups discarded on the reception desk.

 

"I've checked everything a dozen times," replied Wesley, quickening his pace  
slightly. "Of course, one can never be sure something won't go awry. But  
Knox has proved invaluable."

 

"Knox?" Gunn, slowed down to let Wesley catch up. "There's something not  
quite right about that boy. Him and that Doctor creep."

 

"Really? Fred seems to think Knox's all right. She told us so - at the picnic.  
She said she _knew _he wasn't evil."

 

"Well, she should know," said Gunn. "She works long hours with him. Longer  
than with us most days."

 

"Until recently, you mean," said Wesley, looking pained. "Well, he certainly  
impressed me when Fred and I tried to track down the source of the message  
containing the prophecy. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that we wouldn't  
have found a way to solve our problem if it hadn't been for Knox's work that  
night." Wesley's pace slowed, his thoughts replaying the events leading to  
the discovery of Illyria and the possibilities her return held for them.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Fred squinted at the computer monitor and sighed. She pushed herself away  
from the desk and rubbed her eyes. "Nothing. I can't get through. Have you  
found anything?" she asked, turning to Knox.

 

"I've found something on the Wolf, Ram and Hart. Neat idea of yours to go  
from the mail server to the demon archives. Had no problem finding them,"  
he called without looking up from his screen. "But I don't think that's going  
to help us."

 

"It gets us no nearer the origin of the prophecy," Fred agreed. She shivered  
and put a hand to her head, swaying a little as she did so.

 

"Are you okay?" Knox left his computer and quickly crossed the room. "Wesley!"  
he called.

 

Wesley looked up from his work on a pile of ancient tomes, startled by Knox's  
use of his first name. "What . . .?" He saw Fred shudder as a wave of pain  
swept through her whole body. He rushed to her side and grasped her hand,  
steadying her by the elbow as she swayed again.

 

"What is it? What's wrong?"

 

"Um . . . should I get her some water or something?" asked Knox, moving towards  
the cooler.

 

"No, it's nothing," replied Fred, relaxing as the spasm stopped. "It's gone."

 

Wesley gazed at her face with concern. He marked the dark circles under her  
eyes and blue bruising to her lips. "You need to rest," he said sternly.  
"When did you last eat?"

 

"I don't feel like eating," replied Fred wearily. "I'm too tired to eat."

 

"There you are, then. You've just said it all," Wesley scolded gently. "Go  
home and sleep. Knox and I will carry on here."

 

"But I feel better when I'm working. It's when I stop . . ." Fred took Wesley's  
hands in hers. "It's just . . . I don't want to let Angel down. He asked  
me to track down who sent the . . ."

 

Wesley observed how cold Fred's hands were, cold and slightly blue. "Go,"  
he repeated quietly. "You're not letting anyone down. You've never let anyone  
down." He gazed at her fondly, stroking her hair, and reached for the phone.

 

Fred smiled at him and returned his gaze. "Thank you," she said softly.

 

Wesley cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I'll just call security and get them  
to drive you home. We need to keep you safe."

 

As Fred began to gather her things together, she became aware of Knox's presence.  
He was standing very close, looking at her, a question in his eyes.

 

"You're seeing Wesley now." It was a statement, not a question.

 

Fred frowned. "Uh... Oh. OK, " she stammered. That's not connected to keeping  
me safe in some way, is it?"

 

"No, I just wanted to get it out there. And I'm totally good with it. I—I  
know that I've made... advances."

 

"I'm sorry."

 

"No, I— I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. I love working with you,  
and that's plenty for me." Knox turned to her computer. "I'll finish that  
up for you."

 

"You're sweet," said Fred, picking up her things. She gave Wesley a small  
smile as she opened the door and left.

 

"Will you have any better luck, do you think?" asked Wesley peering at the  
computer screen.

 

"Luck?" Knox's eyes narrowed. The question had a knife-edge to it.

 

"With tracking the source of the message?"

 

"It's not a question of luck. It's skill, expertise, dedication." Knox swung  
round to face Wesley. "Would you call _your_ research luck?"

 

"Well, no, not when you put it like that," replied Wesley uneasily. "It's  
just that with anonymous computer messages, the intent is one of not being  
tracked down and..."

 

"And you think that the subjects you research don't share that?"

 

Wesley thought for an instant. "Good point," he replied. "I apologise. Let's  
begin that again shall we? How difficult is it going to be to find this thing?"

 

Knox smiled as Wesley relaxed. "Depends," he said. "What are we looking for  
and what have we got to go on?"

 

"Will the full text do?" Wesley pulled a sheet of paper from his desk and  
carried it over to Knox's workstation. "I copied it from the screen when  
I couldn't find a way of saving it to disc."

 

"That rules out tracking the source of the message, then – but not the prophecy."

 

"But I thought you had ways of getting into the system? Couldn't you . .  
. "

 

"I could . . . probably. But it'd take too long." Knox fixed Wesley with  
a steady stare. "Do you really want to find who sent it? Or do you want to  
crack what it means?"

 

"I'd prefer to know where the message came from," replied Wesley cautiously.  
"But that's not got a lot to do with finding the prophecy itself, so . .  
."

 

"So let's track the prophecy?"

 

"I think so. If you believe looking for the messenger will slow us down."

 

Knox took the sheet from Wesley's hand and began to read. "_Now is not  
the time. When the Old One awakes, Then shall the son stand beside the father.  
Blood will flow and thwart the enemy_." He gave a small smile. I can save  
you _so_ much time," he said gleefully. "You were right in the first  
place – about luck," he added in response to Wesley's blank stare. "You're  
lucky you've got me working with you. I've been fascinated by the Old Ones  
since I was a child. I know just where to start the search."

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Angel and Spike were waiting with Connor for Wesley to catch up, when he  
arrived at the Training Room.

 

"It was Knox who suggested we summon Illyria," Wesley explained to Gunn.  
"He's been somewhat of a fan of hers since he was a child. He knows all about  
her abilities." Wesley stopped and considered his last sentence. "The term  
_'her'_ is a little misleading. We're not really sure if Illyria  
has a gender, as we know it. But, it helps me to think of it as a her."

 

Spike gave Wesley one of his patented raised eyebrows and grimaced. "Bloody  
unhealthy obsession for a young bloke. Should've been into Goths or Heavy  
Metal." He paused, catching sight of Angel's incredulous glance. "Or been  
a New Romantic."

 

"Romantic?" echoed Wesley. "Yes, I suppose he is a Romantic. He certainly  
has a crush on Fred."

 

"Who has a crush on Fred?" said a voice behind him.

 

"Fred! How are you feeling?" Wesley turned to her. He nodded a greeting to  
Lorne. "And Lorne."

 

"Better – ish. A little stronger . . . Eager to get back to the real me."

 

"Is that what will happen?" asked Connor, anxiously. "We'll meet the real  
– um – _us_?"

 

Fred smiled at him. "We _are_ the real us."

 

Connor pushed open the training room door and held it back for her. The others  
followed as Fred led the way. Lorne looked up at the observation window where  
he spotted Knox switching on the lighting and sound systems.

 

Lorne sat down on a bench. "Um – so Charles was right? There are no other  
selves. No other _'usses'_?" he asked hopefully.

 

"Not _different_ other . . ." Fred raised her eyebrows, "usses, anyway.  
At the moment, there are two lines of our time, running parallel to each  
other. Our existence here is an anomaly."

 

"We won't cease to exist when Illyria removes Ethan from this line. We will  
never have existed here. _Here_ won't ever have existed," added Wesley.

 

"You mean all this will just wink out of existence?" asked Connor frowning.  
"Creepy."

 

Angel thought for an instant. "Then we won't remember anything about the  
last eight weeks or so?"

 

"Y . . e . . s." Wesley slowly drew out the single syllable. "They'll never  
have happened,"

 

"And we'll return – when exactly?" asked Spike.

 

"If my calculations are correct, sometime during the day Illyria and Connor  
first meet," replied Wesley. "I believe Angel's destiny depends on returning  
to that time to defeat them – the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart. That's what  
the prophecy means. When Connor and . . . Spike, I believe, will be fighting  
alongside Angel."

 

"Will we all be like we were before?" asked Gunn. "Will I get my powers back?"

 

"We'll be as we were_ then_, with the memories we had then," said Fred.  
"I'll be Fred again."

 

"And I'll be Wesley – with only one set of memories," said Wesley thoughtfully.  
He glanced at Angel. "The memories of last year were created for a reason,"  
he said softly.

 

"To hide from the truth?" asked Lorne watching the two men closely.

 

"To endure it," replied Wesley solemnly. "When we return to our proper time,  
the fabricated ones will be our _only_ memories." He reached out and  
touched Fred's cheek and stroked it gently. She gave little sign of her earlier  
weakness, other than the merest hint of dampness to her skin. "We will _all  
_have no memory of who Connor really is."

 

"Except me," said Angel quietly. All eyes swung to regard the elder vampire.  
"I didn't lose them when I did the deal," he said, gazing fondly at Connor.

 

"And I never had 'em in the first place," said Spike briskly, breaking the  
introspective atmosphere. He threw a brotherly arm over Connor's shoulder.  
"'S bin nice knowin' ya kid. 'Spect I'll be meeting you all over again .  
. ."

 

The door banged open behind him, revealing a dishevelled Ethan struggling  
in Harmony's grip. "He took a lot of persuading, Boss. Didn't want to come  
here for some reason."

 

Ethan stumbled to the floor as Harmony flung him into the room. His face  
was covered in bruises, his bottom lip swelling around a bloody split. "Could  
it be that I'm a little unwilling to participate in this spell because you  
people are summoning some Hell God here to kill me?" he asked, giving her  
a withering look.

 

Spike lowered his arm from Connor's shoulder and strode over to Ethan. "Don't  
worry, old chap," he said, pulling Ethan to his feet. "It'll only hurt for  
a minute. Your Cleveland self won't know anything about it."

 

"Ethan doesn't have to die here either, Spike," said Wesley evenly. He turned  
and gave Ethan an icy stare. "Luckily for you, this particular Hell God is  
adept at moving through time and dimensions. She merely has to remove you  
from this one before you sign the contract with Jenoff."

 

Ethan shrugged Spike's hand off his arm and rubbed his face gingerly. "Now  
how do you propose to persuade her to do that? Have you a royal warrant granting  
a stay of execution?"

 

Wesley remained stone-faced. "Illyria was a great power, both feared and  
loved. So beloved that after millions of years dead, there are still some  
of her Acolytes on this earth. Knox is one of them. Be nice to him. He might  
ask her to spare you."

 

Lorne looked up towards the viewing window in alarm; the image of a blue-haired,  
leather clad Fred suddenly flashing into his brain.

 

"I need to go through a few details with all of you before we start," said  
Wesley. "Knox will need a little time to set up . . . ah, here he is. I think  
over there will be just right." Wesley motioned to Knox, who had just entered  
carrying a small box, which he set down in the centre of the room and began  
to unpack.

 

Wesley turned to Angel. "Perhaps we should all go to the observation gallery.  
Harmony, would you stay here and keep an eye on Ethan? Make sure he doesn't  
do anything silly."

 

Gunn, Connor and Lorne disappeared through the door leading to the observation  
room. Ethan swallowed hard and squinted at the young man crouched on the  
floor.

 

"Cheer up, mate." Spike had noticed the mage's discomfort. "You're going  
to Cleveland. Giles is there, last we heard. You can make his life a misery  
for a bit when you get there," he grinned.

 

Ethan considered for a moment. "You think so? You're not just saying that  
to make me feel better about losing my immortality?"

 

"Can't lose what you never had, chum," replied Spike. "Bit like the whole  
Shanshu bugaboo." He glanced at Angel as they left the room together. "Ain't  
that right?"

 

Angel frowned. "You still mad about that?"

 

"Damn right I am. _That_ and Buffy. And it's you who's still bangin'  
on about being her chosen one."

 

"I _am_," said Angel smugly. "_Cookie dough_, remember?"

 

"Not at the last Apocalypse you weren't!" Spike said through gritted teeth.  
"_Cookie dough_?" Spike's look of confusion was quickly replaced by  
an irate scowl. "You _ever_ goin' to admit that what I did was for the  
right reasons?"

 

Angel sighed. "Look, I thought the Sunnydale Apocalypse could be the one,  
you know, where the whole Shanshu thing might . . ." He stopped and shook  
his head slightly. "And then when Buffy sent me away and you did the gig  
instead . . ." He folded his arms across his chest and glared at Spike, stony  
faced.

 

"Oh, so you _were_ jealous."

 

"Of you?" Angel sneered. "Why? Because you did it to prove something to Buffy?"

 

"No, because I chose to do it even when she asked me _not_ to." Spike  
paused and dropped his gaze to the floor. "She told me I'd done enough."

 

Angel stared at him in surprise.

 

"Yeah, you heard me," said Spike vehemently looking directly into his eyes.  
"_I_ . _Chose_. Nothing to do with prophecies, or reward, or fulfilling  
a bloody destiny. Free will. That's what it was all about."

 

"Free will's one thing, but no one really has totally free choice, Spike,"  
said Angel wearily. "We all have our reasons for choosing – or not choosing  
things."

 

"Or people," agreed Spike, relaxing a little.

 

The two vampires stood silent for a while, each lost in his own thoughts.  
Spike brushed the toe of his boot along the ground, contemplating the patterns  
it drew.

 

He finally looked up at his grandsire. "Look, I don't like you, probably  
never will. But I chose to stay because you're family – you and Connor -  
the only one I got now that Dru's buggered off somewhere. Just want you to  
know – in the other line – the Ethan-free one, I'd do the same." He dropped  
his eyes to the floor. "If it came to a choice."

 

Angel remained still. The anger he'd felt at Spike's reopening the old wound  
of competition for Buffy melted away at the sound of that word family. "Let's  
get back to the others," he said after a long silence. "We've got some farewells  
to make."

   
  
---|---


	18. Blood Calls to Blood

  
  
  


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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

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**Chapter  
18.**Blood Calls to Blood.

****

****Six anxious faces regarded Wesley silently as he stood   
before them with his back to the viewing window. Beyond him, down below in   
the training room, they could see Knox making the preparations for the Summoning.

 

 

Spike and Angel flanked Connor. Spike had forgone his favoured against-the-wall-slouch  
position, his stance grim faced, arms crossed. Whatever Wesley had to say,  
it didn’t look good. _Watcher’s been keeping somethin’ to himself. Looks  
like he’s about to share._

 

Angel’s unease about the deal he had done with Wolfram and Hart, the mind  
wipe and its effects on the others, threatened to overwhelm him. _I’m  
not gonna be able to do anything about it. I won’t remember **any **of  
this._ He placed a hand on Connor’s shoulder and gave it a comforting  
squeeze, more for his own sake than for his son’s. Connor swung his head  
to look up at him and gave him a small smile.

 

Lorne forced his attention down into the training room. Fred clung to his  
arm. She’d slipped, once again, from the confident Head of Science of that  
morning, to the helpless and fading girl of yesterday. If he allowed himself  
to look at her, the visions threatened to overpower him. He could make no  
sense of them; the knowledge they offered was beyond anything he’d ever  
experienced through his readings. He’d had to force himself to stay, even  
as his instinct told him to leave; leave Wolfram and Hart, LA, the dimension  
if necessary. Lorne felt his hands start to shake and sweat rolled down  
into his eyes. He bit his lip and reached for the handkerchief in his pocket  
with one hand, holding onto Gunn’s arm for support with the other. “To keep  
me from running,” he muttered by way of explanation.

 

Gunn looked down at the hand gripping his arm. Must be something bad comin’.  
“Thought it was keep _on _runnin’,” he said, lightly.

 

This was the cue Wesley needed. “Lorne is right to be afraid,” he began.   
“There is a part of the spell which is extremely unpredictable.” He turned   
and gestured at Knox. “The Circle of Summoning,” he explained, as Knox drew   
an almost perfect circle of red sand on the floor, “is just the beginning.   
Knox will draw the mark of Illyria inside this to keep her bound when she   
first appears.” He paused and turned back to face the others. “There are two  
parts to the summoning spell. The first is an incantation that will call to  
her in the dimension she inhabits now.”

 

“What’ll make her pick up?” asked Connor.

 

“The blood,” answered Spike. “Am I right?”

 

“Yes. Fred’s blood must fall on the cruciform of Illyria’s mark.”

 

Wesley glanced at Spike, whose eyes had narrowed as he considered the  
call of blood to blood.

 

“At this point, Illyria has the power to distort matter and reality,”  
he explained. “Should anything interrupt the spell, she will be able to  
subvert the binding power of the mark.”

 

“Better make sure nothin’ goes wrong then,” said Spike, turning to Angel.  
“P’raps one of us should be in there . . .”

 

Angel glanced at Wesley. “Wes’s call,” he said.

 

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” replied Wesley. “The fewer people   
are in there, the less likely it is that anything untoward will happen.”  
He turned once again to the window and watched as Knox put the final touches  
to the symbols he’d drawn inside the circle. Knox placed five gems, similar  
to the one Wesley held in his hand, around a pinwheel-shaped Iris segmented  
like a piece of fruit. Below this he drew two partially open circles, joining  
them at their bases with an inverted cruciform. “The summoning is completed  
when I smash this crystal in the iris, opening a portal through which Illyria  
will rise.” Wes held out a pale purple gem, naturally cut in rough crystal  
form.

 

“Then what?” Connor broke the silence.

 

“Then we explain . . .” Angel began.

 

“Oh, not with the explaining again,” Spike interrupted. “You’ve never really  
gotten the hang of that.”

 

Angel shuffled his feet and glared at him.

 

“No one _here _needs explain anything,” said Wesley diplomatically.  
“Illyria will recognise Knox as her Qwa'ha Xahn. She will be drawn to him.  
He will be her guide.” Wesley held out a hand towards Fred. “Fred, it’s  
time,” he said gently.”

 

“Time? It’s time?” Fred stared anxiously at Knox who had risen to his feet  
and was gazing up at her. “No! It’s the wrong time. I haven’t figured it  
out yet. I’m not ready . . .”

 

“Shhh,” Wesley soothed. “It’s all right. You can work on it later, when   
you get back to the lab.”

 

“I’m going back to the lab?” she asked. “When?”

 

“After the ritual. You remember what we talked about earlier? You’re needed  
– now. You’ll help us all get back to where we should be.”

 

Fred swung her head and looked at each of them in turn. All, save Lorne   
who could manage only a grimace, gave her an encouraging smile.

 

“We can’t do it without you, Princess,” said Spike, opening the door for   
her. “You hurt her and I’ll knock your bloody block off,” he added as Wesley   
passed him.

 

Wesley shot him an appreciative smile and followed Fred down into the training  
room.

 

\--------------------

 

“You can go now, Harmony,” said Wesley. “We shan’t be needing you any more.”

 

Harmony left the chair she’d been sitting in while guarding Ethan and crossed   
the room. “Can’t I just - you know - stay with you guys? I’d be no trouble,  
honestly.”

 

Wesley looked up at Angel who shook his head. “Sorry Harmony. But, thank  
you for all you’ve done. You’ve been a great help.”

 

Harmony walked dejectedly towards the door. As she turned the knob, Wesley   
called, “Harmony! You won’t remember anything. You’ll be back at your desk  
when we all return.”

 

“You’re sure?” asked Harmony turning and flashing him a smile. “’Cos I’d  
hate not to be – you know – part of the team. I don’t think I could stand  
being back in the typing pool.”

 

“I’m certain,” replied Wesley. “Oh, and one more thing. Would you lock  
the door when you leave? I don’t want Ethan slipping out when my concentration’s  
elsewhere.” He glanced over at Ethan, who sat bolt upright in a straight-backed  
chair, studying the room for an alternative means of escape.

 

“Okie dokie,” replied Harmony brightly. She bounced out of the door and   
Wesley listened for the click of the lock before he turned his attention to  
Fred.

 

“This is the house of death,” she said, bitterly as he settled her onto   
a cushion Knox had placed on the floor beside the summoning circle.

 

Wesley could feel her trembling as he helped her lower herself into a cross-legged  
seating position. She gave him a look of pure trust. “I’m not scared,” she  
whispered. “I’m _not_ scared, “ she repeated more loudly.

 

Knox handed Wesley a canvas bag out of which he pulled a short scabbard,  
a pouch laced with leather, decorated with faded runes worn thin by centuries  
of hands, and a piece of parchment, flaking slightly from its edges and  
brown with age.

 

Knox lit the candles he’d placed around the summoning circle and dimmed   
the lights with the remote control. He stepped back into the shadows and watched  
as Wesley prepared himself beside Fred.

 

The former Watcher removed the knife from its sheath and held it over the  
flame of the candle beside the iris. “_Shades of the Summoning, purify  
this blade that it may do thy bidding_.” Opening the leather pouch with  
his free hand, he sprinkled some of its contents into the flame. It leapt  
towards the blade; smoke curling round the edge in swirling patterns that  
echoed the runes on the pouch. Tendrils snaked upwards, seeking the Mage  
who called upon their power, entering his nose, ears and mouth. Wesley threw  
his head back in a rictus of pain and opened his eyes wide.

 

“_Illyria, I name thee Ruler of worlds, Warrior and Destroyer of Enemies.  
Illyria, beloved King, Master of All – come, restore your most impious servants   
to their proper time and place_.” Wesley grasped Fred’s hand. “_From  
the blood of the innocent, she is risen. From the blood of the innocent,  
she shall rise again_.” He pulled the knife swiftly across Fred’s palm,  
opening a shallow gash.

 

Fred breathed in hard, wincing at the cut. Knox handed Wesley the remaining  
crystal as Fred placed her hand over the cruciform.

 

With a final glance at the observation window, Wesley raised his arm. At   
Angel’s slight nod, he held the crystal higher and began the downward sweep.   
Knox began humming the chorus from ‘Zadoc the Priest’ to himself, providing   
a background to final part of the incantation.

 

“_Old One, Majesty, Unknown Spirit, we seek your guidance. We beseech   
that you commune with us and move amongst us, here_.”

 

“_God Save the King, Long Live the King_,” Knox sang softly.

 

The blood in Lorne’s veins turned to flowing lava, burning his entrails,   
searing his lungs, as the vision took his breath away for just an instant.   
_Illyria! Oh my God, Fred!_ He leapt to his feet and hit the intercom   
switch. “Stop! Wes!” he shouted. “It’ll kill Fred.”

 

Wesley paused at Lorne’s warning, his arm frozen in mid arc. Knox hurled   
himself towards the crystal, knocking it out of his hand, pushing Fred out   
of the way as he dived for it. Fred curled into the foetal position and moaned.  
She held out her hands to Wesley. "Don’t let them take me,” she whimpered.

 

A millisecond before Lorne moved, Spike watched the blood dripping from   
Fred’s wound. They _needed _Fred’s blood. He still couldn’t square the   
whole idea of Fred being the only innocent one. _Something’s not right_.   
“Shit! We – he said _we_. That’s what he meant!” Spike launched himself  
at the window.

 

“_Meant_? We? _Who_ we?” asked Angel watching him in amazement.

 

“He’s a bloody Qwa'ha Xahn! That’s what he meant back at the hotel, about   
needing Fred!” yelled Spike. He crashed through the glass, the ensuing explosion  
sending a myriad of lethal shards cascading down onto the training room  
floor below.

 

Angel hesitated. _Making the right choice. Spike said it all boiled down  
to that. Fred or . . . _Angel was only a heartbeat behind Spike through  
the broken window.

 

Spike shook the glass from his hair, scooped Fred in his arms and carried  
her out of the circle. He placed her carefully on her feet beside Ethan  
and reached out to grasp the waistband of Ethan’s pants.

 

Ethan’s eyes widened. “I don’t think we know one another well enough,”  
he smirked. “And_ I don’t _– not on a first date.”

 

Spike growled and yanked Ethan’s shirt free, tearing a strip from the bottom.   
He began binding Fred’s hand, his eyes fixed on Knox, who was grappling with  
Wesley for possession of the crystal.

 

Ethan fingered the edge of his torn shirt and opened his mouth to protest,  
then thought better of it._ A distraction is just what was needed_,  
he decided, inching his way round the edge of the room towards the door.

 

 

Angel picked up Knox and flung him against the wall. The crystal flew from   
Knox’s hand in a graceful curve, smashing on the ground beside the iris.  
Thousands of splinters erupted from its centre, sending rainbows of multi-coloured  
light flashing round the room. Connor, Gunn and Lorne burst in through the  
door and slewed into slow motion as the colours hit them; the air darkened  
and thickened.

 

“You’re too late,” cried Knox triumphantly. “You can’t stop her. Nothing  
can stop her. She’s . . .” He struggled to his feet and pointed at the iris,  
“ . . . _here_.” The pinwheel cracked open, its segments turning, separating,  
and folding back into the edge of the mark. A leather-clad figure rose from   
its centre, blue hair obscuring the face. Graceful hands swept the curtains  
of blue aside, revealing ice-cold eyes staring at Wesley from within Fred’s  
features.

 

“What just happened?” Wesley asked groggily, staggering to his feet. He  
stared at the apparition. “Fred?”

 

“It wasn’t like this . . .” Illyria stepped forward, tilting her head quizzically  
at the group gathered around Fred. “How did you worms accomplish it? You  
ripped me out of linear progression, my time line is torn into shreds and  
chaos is stitching it back together.

 

Fred sank to the floor and Lorne dropped to his knees beside her in concern.

 

“_She_ – is here?” Illyria’s voice cut through the rainbows, shattering  
them into glistening particles that floated to the floor. “How is this possible?  
You!” Illyria grabbed Wesley by the throat and hoisted him into the air  
with one hand. “Why have you summoned me here? You cannot save her. Nothing  
you toe-dirt and half-breeds can do will save her.”

 

“’S that right?” Spike charged towards her.

 

Illyria dropped Wesley and deflected Spike’s attack, flicking him aside   
and into the wall behind Ethan. Angel followed Spike’s example and drove   
himself low into Illyria’s knees. She barely flinched at the impact and threw   
him effortlessly through the door, smashing it off its hinges and sending   
a shower of splinters raining down on Connor and Gunn.

 

Illyria gazed disdainfully down at Wesley. “It impresses me, the power  
of your Summoning. What is it? Magics?” She turned her gaze on Fred. “Whatever   
you have done, it cannot save her. To do anything other than bow to my will  
is inane. And yet you conspire . . .”

 

Knox stepped into Illyria’s line of vision and bowed. “I knew you would   
come – Highness.”

 

Illyria stared coldly at him. “You are my Qwa'ha Xahn. Yet you would join  
with these maggots in their attempts to destroy me?”

 

“Oh, I’m not _with _them, Majesty. I am your priest. I am your servant.  
I am your guide to this world. I’m the one made all this possible,” Knox  
grinned. “I had the sarcophagus teleported here, but would you believe it  
got stuck in customs. It wasn’t supposed to do that.” he pointed at Ethan  
slipping out of the door. “_He _caused all this. He changed things.”  
Knox watched as Spike picked himself up and staggered to his feet, gathering  
his strength for another attack, and Wesley crawled painfully across the  
floor towards the summoning circle, reaching for the purple crystal beneath  
the iris. “And – um – I think you’d better do something before . . .”

 

Illyria drew the cruciform mark in the air with her hand. She took hold   
of Knox’s collar and hauled him past Spike, now frozen in mid-charge, through  
the debris of the shattered door, across Angel’s still prone body and down  
the corridor.

 

“You will show me,” she commanded.

 

\-------------

 

“I knew you would come to me,” gasped Knox as Illyria dragged him down  
the corridor. “My life is yours, I worship you.”

 

“Yes, I know.” Illyria slowed her pace, allowing him to catch his breath.  
She cast a disparaging glance over his body. “My last Qwa'ha Xahn was fit   
for the role.”

 

“Um – yes . . .” Knox looked down at himself. “I’ve been meaning to work  
out more, but what with the delay in your arrival and arranging things so  
that Wesley . . .”

 

Illyria ignored him. “The Meddler, he too is weak and feeble.”

 

“He is,” agreed Knox. “But what he lacks in strength, he makes up for with  
extraordinary sneakiness.”

 

Illyria focussed her gaze on Ethan as he rushed towards the exit. She held  
up her hand, creating a whirling portal. “Show me what he did.”

 

\------------------------

 

Spike landed on an empty space. “What the bloody hell . . .?”

 

Angel appeared in the doorway, rubbing the blood from his face where the   
splinters had gashed the skin. He surveyed the wrecked room and moved quickly   
to Wesley’s side. “Wes? You okay?”

 

Wesley’s anguished face told all.

 

“No, guess not.” Angel turned to the others. “How’s Fred?”

 

Lorne stood up slowly and approached Wesley. “I’m sorry,” he said, lowering   
his head. “I should have known. I could have stopped it if – if I’d known.”

 

Wesley brushed aside the hand he offered to help him rise and crawled over  
to where Fred lay motionless. “Fred?”

 

She opened her eyes and gazed at him, tears spilling unchecked over the   
lower lids. “Wesley,” she whispered. “Why can’t I stay?” Her eyes glazed and  
rolled back as she slumped, lifeless, into Wesley’s waiting arms. He buried  
his face in her hair, his shoulders shaking as sobs wracked his body.

 

Spike broke the silence that followed. “Well, what’re we waiting for?”  
he asked unable to watch any more. He appealed to the others as they too  
looked on in horror. “Let’s go _get _the bitch.” He yanked at Gunn’s  
arm. “C’mon Chuck. Payback time.”

 

“Spike!” Angel’s cry stopped him before he reached the door. “You’re not  
going anywhere.” He turned to the others. “No one makes a move ‘til I say  
so. This isn’t over yet.”

 

“This is all my fault!” cried Lorne. He joined Gunn and Connor beside Wesley  
who sat rocking Fred’s lifeless body in his arms.

 

“It’s not your fault,” said Angel sternly. “It’s no-one’s fault. It’s what   
was meant to happen. Illyria came back from our proper time line. That means  
it’s already happened. Ethan’s meddling pushed us here – where is he?” he  
added, his eyes sweeping the room. “Ilyria’s gonna get us back . . .”

 

“You _bastard_!” Spike swung at him.

 

Angel caught Spike’s fist just before it connected with his jaw and held  
it in a vice-like grip.

 

“You’re willing to let Fred die to save your precious destiny!” said Spike  
through gritted teeth.

 

“She’s already dead,” Angel said quietly. “Nothing any of us can do will   
change that. We have to stay together. I’m not losing anyone else.”

 

“What – you want us to just stand here and _all_ hold hands?” Spike  
fumed.

 

“This isn’t a seance, Spike,” snarled Angel releasing Spike’s fist.

 

“We should stay put,” agreed Gunn. “We don’t know what Illyria’s going  
to do; we don’t know where she went and we sure didn’t plan on her pulling   
a Barry Allen.”

 

Angel looked at him uncomprehendingly.

 

Gunn checked the others blank looks, “Jay Garrick? Wally— Like she was  
moving really fast.”

 

“Or we were moving very slow,” added Connor.

 

Lorne put a hand to his head and rubbed his horns. “I really messed up  
big time, didn’t I? That’s what always happens with Comeback performances.  
So now she's unbelievably strong and she can alter time.”

 

“Nothing we can do about that,” replied Angel, still holding Spike’s gaze.

 

“So, what do we do?” asked Connor.

 

Wesley lifted his tear stained face. “We wait.”

 

“For what, exactly?” demanded Spike. He pushed his face into Angel’s. “You  
gonna click your heels together?”

 

Angel stepped back from him and slumped against the doorpost. “We wait,”  
he repeated wearily, “for Illyria to make the next move.”

 

\----------------------------------

 

Knox gazed at Illyria. “I've been waiting so long for this. I've loved  
you from the moment I saw you. I was eleven. You were timeless, pressed  
between the pages of the forbidden texts. I would stare at you for hours,  
locked in my room. My mom thought I was looking at porn.”

 

Illyria stood motionless, staring across the city, scanning the rooftops.  
“Be silent.”

 

Knox bowed low, touching the glowing mark on his forehead. “Sorry, my bad.”

 

“I once travelled dimensions as I pleased, sailed ships of white vision   
on platters of air, rode silver wings of storms and light, swam the oceans   
of nowhere.” She turned the glacial eyes to Knox. “And now I am bound to this  
plane . . . but not this time.” Illyria examined her hands and ran them along  
her arms, her neck, and up to her face. “The Meddler . . .”

 

“Deserves to be punished, Majesty?” Knox interrupted eagerly.

 

“Do not presume to know my will,” said Illyria icily.

 

“No, no presuming here, Boss . . . King.” Knox stammered. “Making a suggestion,  
no presumption intended.”

 

Illyria turned her gaze on Knox. “He shall be rewarded.”

 

Knox’s face fell. “Rewarded? He messes up, I straighten out and _he _gets  
rewarded?”

 

“He has provided a means of escape,” replied Illyria. “I am no longer bound   
to a single time within the confines of your linear one.”

 

\------------------------------

 

Angel and Spike faced one another across an uneasy silence. Spike finally   
dropped his eyes from his grandsire's. He pursed his lips and nodded his  
head, slowly formulating an opinion in his head. “S’pose you _did_  
make the right choice – when you came through that with me.” He glanced  
upwards at the shattered viewing room window. “You’re still a right bastard  
though.”

 

“Thanks, and you’re still an impulsive idiot.”

 

A face peered round the doorframe and surveyed the mayhem in front of him.  
“The Hell God wouldn’t play ball, then?” asked Ethan mischievously. “Oh  
well . . .win some, lose . . .” He disappeared, winking out before finishing  
the sentence.

   
  
---|---


	19. Whose time is it anyway?

  
  
  


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Family: Blood Calls to Blood

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**Epilogue.****   
**Whose time is it anyway?

****

****"Some people never learn," said Ethan addressing the back of  
his companion's head.. "What did you expect at a Hellmouth, songs round   
the campfire? Cleveland's not so different from Sunnydale after all's said  
and done."

 

Rupert Giles wiped his hands, dusting off the remains of the vampire he'd   
just staked from his clothes. He swung round to face the cause of the recent   
outbreak of _hubbub at the Hellmouth_. " I thought _you _were   
. . . different that is. But all _this _ . ." he gestured at the carnage   
strewn across the now-closed Hellmouth and at Andrew tending to several wounded  
young slayers, "was your idea of a demonstration of your reformed character?"  
he asked scathingly.

 

"I'm disappointed in you, Rupert," drawled Ethan. "It'd take a lot more  
than a tin-pot-army behaviour modification chip to neuter me." Ethan turned  
and disappeared into the night. "Chaos looks after it's own, Ripper. You  
should know that by now."

 

\-----------------

 

Lorne took another gulp of the_ Early Bird Special _and tapped the  
rim of his glass. "Same again, and don't spare the special."

 

A hand reached over his shoulder and covered the glass. "No more," said  
a familiar voice. "You've had enough".

 

The bartender glowered at Gunn and emptied the cocktail shaker into the  
slops.

 

Lorne sighed wearily. "That's where you're wrong, Charles." He gazed into   
the remaining dregs of green liquid. "I haven't had nearly enough.

 

Gunn perched himself on the neighbouring bar stool. "Happy Hour?" he asked  
after reading the notice above the bar. "You're the only customer here,  
and you don't look too happy to me."

 

Lorne glanced upwards at the sign. "I think the term Happy Hour should   
be banned from the English language. There's nothing happy about this hour   
or any other."

 

"Oh," said the bartender glumly scanning the empty bar. "So that's where   
I went wrong. Well, what'dya know?"

 

"Not so much these days," grimaced Lorne. "But what I _do_ know is  
I started drinking the moment that I found out that a girl I loved was gonna   
die." Lorne choked back a sob, threw back the remains of his drink, and held  
out his glass. "More sea less breeze, this time."

 

"Angel wants you to start tailing Illyria, keep tabs on her," said Gunn,   
shaking his head at the bartender. "He got you a little walkie-talkie and   
everything." He pulled a small, shiny handset from his pocket and held it   
out to Lorne.

 

Lorne looked at it suspiciously. "Illyria's still making the headlines,  
huh? Front-page news _and_ a walking obituary." He took the proffered  
device and sighed. "Strange times."

 

"Strange times," agreed Gunn.

 

Lorne grimaced and shook his head slowly gazing at the bottom of the discarded   
tumbler. "Every time I get to the bottom of the glass, I hope that that last  
drop is gonna take me the distance." He placed a hand on Gunn's shoulder   
and levered himself upwards. "A simple plan that failed utterly," he finished   
bitterly. "Which is why I'm gonna heave my toushi off this stool, strap the  
bells back on, and with a smile and a quip, go back into the belly of a  
very ugly beast pretending I can help. 'Cause that's what the green guy does."

 

Gunn threw a brotherly arm over his shoulder and walked him silently to  
the waiting car.

 

\------------------------------------

 

Spike crashed into the wall of the training room and crumpled in a heap  
beside the window.

 

"You're improving," said Wesley clicking his stopwatch and noting the  
time on his clipboard.

 

"_Improving_?" Spike pushed himself up onto one knee. "How'd you  
figure? I'm here, head through the wall again, instead of on my feet."

 

"Three minutes ten seconds between feet on floor and head through wall   
this time," replied Wesley, placing the clipboard into its wall-mounted wallet.

 

"Yeah, well that's as maybe, but she's still doing major damage, "complained   
Spike, using the window pillar to haul himself to his feet, examining his   
arm as he did so. "Think it's broken," he added frowning.

 

"Your wrist?" asked Wesley stepping closer to examine it.

 

"No, the bloody watch! It's _stopped_." Spike spun round. "That'd   
be _your_ doing," he said indignantly to Illyria.

 

Wesley turned Spike's wrist over and peered at the dial, fingering the   
cracked glass. _Spike doesn't own a watch_.

 

Illyria regarded both men with a disinterested ice-blue gaze. "This is   
linear time of which you speak. It is of no consequence. Time does not exist   
until it cracks apart. Know that I am here to stay - whether you measure   
it or not."

 

Wesley tilted his head, anxious to learn more about her power over time.   
"When did it crack?" he asked.

 

Illyria's eyes glazed. "You are so concerned with dates, with times –  
with reality."

 

"Y – e –s," replied Wesley slowly. He scrutinised her face. "Reality's   
being _changed_."

 

"Define the change you perceive," said Illyria. "The world is as it is."

 

"_Not _necessarily." Wesley turned to leave the room just as Angel  
pushed open the door.

 

"_Angel_." Wesley nodded in response to the silent greeting. "I'll  
be in my office, if anyone wants me."

 

Illyria watched him leave, her face expressionless. Turning her back on  
the two vampires, she inspected Wesley's clipboard.

 

Angel drew Spike to one side. "You've got to stop." he whispered.

 

Spike frowned. "Stop?"

 

"These sessions."

 

"Not bloody likely. Almost got her tapped. That time-stop thing is a right  
pain, but I'm starting to suss out her million-year-old moves. Cheeky minx   
she is. Changes the rhythm just when I get into it - little jujitsu, then   
a little Bruce Lee. The bitch has a kick straight from the handbook. She   
probably wrote it."

 

"You_ have_ to stop," hissed Angel.

 

"Now hang on," complained Spike. "Only just getting' the gist of it. Testing  
her has sharpened moves I didn't even know were rusty."

 

Angel looked across at Illyria. "We're not testing her, Spike. _She's  
_testing us."

 

There was a low tap on the door. It swung back immediately, revealing  
a tall, well-dressed man who scanned the room. "Oh, sorry for the intrusion,  
I'm Marcus Hamilton, your new liaison to the senior partners."

 

"You're what?" asked Angel. "What happened to Eve?" He approached the  
man cautiously, taking in the cut of his jacket, the quality of the material.   
This man reeked of money, from the top of his expensively coifed hair, through   
the scent of his designer after-shave, to the toes of his highly polished   
Italian-leather shoes.

 

Marcus didn't flinch under Angel's scrutiny. He tightened his tie and  
gave a small smile. "Along with her immortality and certain other privileges,   
Eve has signed over her duties to me." He strolled past Angel and addressed   
Spike. "She's a walking nightmare, isn't she?" he commented, gesturing at   
Illyria.

 

"Well put."

 

"And yet Mr Wyndam Pryce seem to be the closest thing she has to a friend."

 

Spiked snorted. "If you knew him, you'd realise just how bloody stupid   
that statement is."

 

Hamilton turned back to Angel. "Well, the partners know _her_. Yes,"   
he said at Angel's look of astonishment. "They go way back. They don't want   
her here. They don't want her _anywhere_ . . .at all. But they consider   
this to be your problem, so . . ." He turned to go. "Oh, one more thing.   
You might tell Mr Pryce that what he's looking for isn't in this dimension,   
or this time."

 

Hamilton opened the door. "Tell him to consult the books. They have the answers."  
He gave Spike a smile that never reached his eyes. "Have a nice fight."

 

Angel and Spike looked at one another for a moment then turned their attention   
to Illyria. She stood motionless, looking up at the viewing gallery window,   
contemplating the fine fissures in the glass only she could see.

 

Spike sniffed loudly. "Right. So I'll stay here then. Keep an eye on the   
Blue Meanie."

 

\--------------------------

 

Angel stepped out through the doorway. He heard the ping of the elevator   
arriving followed by the swish of the opening doors.

 

"Hey Dad!"

 

Angel turned at the sound of Connor's voice and watched him step from  
the elevator. "What? What're you . . .?" Angel mumbled in shock.

 

"Dad?" Connor brushed past him and walked towards a middle-aged man standing   
in the doorway of Gunn's office.

 

"Yeah. It's okay, son. Come on in. Mr Gunn is going to sort out something   
for us right now."

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

 

 

   
  
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